


Hope Prevails

by eyeus



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boromir Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Time, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest, Violence, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 76,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7214446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are a <i>warrior</i>,” says Aragorn. “Of <i>Gondor</i>.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?” </p><p>In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.</p><p>“Then think of him, and <i>live</i>,” Aragorn commands. “<i>He</i> will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you <i>will</i> return home to him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Warrior of Gondor

**Author's Note:**

> Boromir Lives AU. 
> 
> Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still. 
> 
> Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.

~

_If there is need to go to Rivendell_ , Faramir had said, _send me in Boromir’s stead. Or better yet—_

He had glanced toward Boromir then, the two of them sharing a look of unspoken understanding, as they stood among the ruins of Osgiliath: the hope that they would leave for Rivendell together, or not at all.

_Send us both_ , Boromir had said to Denethor immediately, knowing what was in Faramir’s thoughts. _That we may travel the fell roads together, and watch out for one another. What better way to ensure the weapon of the enemy comes to Gondor?_ Their time together was rare enough as it was, and the journey would allow them to enjoy each other’s company once again.

That their father would grant their wish _had_ been a wild hope; instead, he had soundly mocked Faramir’s request and denied Boromir’s, his rationale being that he had tasked Boromir alone with this, and would not be swayed. And while both brothers reasoned that this was not done to spite Faramir—that it was because Gondor could not spare both its Captains on a months-long journey to Rivendell, for only a chance at the weapon of the enemy and an explanation of their shared vision, a cryptic poem sent from the Valar themselves—both he and Faramir had been disappointed by the decision. 

Still, Faramir’s words back then had heartened Boromir. Had bolstered him on his long journey from home, for Faramir had offered at least to take his place, if not to accompany him.

But now, _now_ —

Boromir sinks to his knees, defeated, the Uruk’s arrows buried deep in his flesh. And even as pain lances through his chest, his shoulder, brutal and biting and sharp, Boromir can think only of how thankful he is, that Faramir had not come in his stead. Had returned to his Rangers in Ithilien, where he might fight his battles with the enemy with an army at hand.

_No, even if Faramir could take my place now, I would not wish it_ , thinks Boromir. _I could never wish it_. He could lose all else—his honor, his pride, his _life_ —but he would not lose Faramir as well. 

_If this is the price for Faramir’s safety, I would pay it_. 

He wonders now if the weight of premonition had sat heavy upon his brother’s shoulders even before his departure. Not long before Boromir left, they had clung to one another in the night, as they had done when they were children, the two of them small, scared. Huddled together in Boromir’s bed, anxious at their parting. 

_Boromir_. Faramir’s fingers had clutched too tight at Boromir’s shoulders. _Your journey will be fraught with peril. I speak not only of the way to Rivendell; I have seen…_

His voice had caught in his throat then, and Faramir had only wound his arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. Clung tighter, as if he could not bear to let Boromir go.

_What is it you have you seen?_ Boromir had urged. 

But in this, Faramir would not tell him, as if bound by childish belief that voicing his vision aloud would make it come true. _Have care in your journey_ , Faramir had said instead. They had spoken little of Faramir’s visions after that, preferring instead to share kisses and meaningful touches enough to tide them over for the time Boromir would be away.

He thinks of Faramir now; wonders if this moment must have been what Faramir saw in his vision.

Of Boromir fallen to his knees, broken and beaten. The sound of Uruk-hai thundering past him, as if he were no more than a mote, an ant to be crushed, now that they had captured his Halfling friends. Of Boromir looking up into the dead eyes of the Uruk that laid him low, its bow centered to strike the fatal blow. 

The sight of this foul creature, so lightless, cold, and unfeeling, is far at odds with the pristine woodland beauty surrounding them. A sharp contrast against the smell of dry leaves and the rustle of them underfoot. The rich scent of the earth. The way the sun seeps through the canopy of trees above, scattering swathes of shining gold along the ground. Even with the taste of blood in Boromir’s mouth, the sick heat and tang of it, his heart beats all the faster for his injuries, and he senses everything around him with stunning clarity.

With a great effort, Boromir tries to will his arm to move, to take up his sword once more. But the Halflings behind him are long gone now, captured like so much livestock for the slaughter. There is nothing left to fight for. 

_No—there is Faramir_ , Boromir remembers. _I would fight to see him again. To hold him once more_. But his limbs hang like anvils at his side, numb weights that will not obey his orders to simply _move_.

_Faramir_ , he thinks, mournfully. The brother that eagerly awaited his homecoming. The brother he had loved, and been loved by in return.

The woods are silent now; there is no twitter of birdsong in the trees, nor the flutter of wings. No scampering of the woodland creatures, or wind rustling the leaves of the trees above. It adds to the inherent wrongness of the forest, lending power to the creature standing before him.

The Uruk draws its bow once more, a telltale grind sounding as the bowstring pulls taut against its yew frame. 

_Faramir_ , Boromir thinks. A litany of _Faramir Faramir Faramir_ that has nothing to do with how right his brother was, or how afraid he had been for Boromir, but of how much Boromir misses him. How sorry he is that he will never see Faramir again. And how dearly Boromir wishes the sight of him could be the last thing he would see before he left this world—though he doubts Faramir would want to see _him_ ; would his brother not be ashamed of him, instead? Trying to seize the ring from one so small and vulnerable, one he had sworn to protect? 

_I have failed you, Faramir_ , Boromir thinks, resigned. _And you, Merry and Pippin. Frodo._

_I have failed you all._

The Uruk will not miss from this distance; its next arrow will pierce through Boromir’s heart.

Then Aragorn _lunges_ through the trees, a blaze of righteousness and fury, his sword held high as he gives the Uruk as good as he gets. Never once relents, even when the towering Uruk beats him down, each of its strikes meant to kill, each brutal blow drawing blood. Aragorn continues doggedly on, deflecting its deadly strikes and matching it in battle prowess as he cuts the Uruk down to size. 

Boromir manages to crawl away, finding an embankment not littered by the corpses of Uruks he has killed, before rolling gingerly onto his back. It will not be long now—blood has seeped through the fabric of his tunic, soaking his surcoat in a mess that is cold and wet and dark. He gazes up at the sky, feeling every inch a failure; he had not brought home the ring as his father wanted. Nor would he return to Faramir as he had promised. And he had all but lost the trust and respect of his comrades. 

_There is weakness, yes_ , Boromir said to Aragorn, before their company set out upon the Anduin, a poor attempt to outrun Saruman’s army. _And there is frailty. But there is courage also, and honour to be found in Men. But you will not see that!_

Except it was Boromir who had not seen; had not realized that _he_ was the embodiment of all the weakness and frailty he had spoken of, and none of the courage and honour. 

“Boromir!” Aragorn calls now, loping toward him. His face is streaked with a mess of blood and grime and sweat, but still he stumbles toward Boromir as if his own injuries mean nothing. Cradles Boromir, supporting him. “Be _still_ ,” he chides, as Boromir tries to rise to his elbows and fails, falling back weakly. 

“They took the little ones,” Boromir manages, despite the fresh well of blood that rises to his lips and seeps from his wounds. “And Frodo—where is Frodo?”

“I let Frodo go,” says Aragorn, solemn.

“Then you did what I could not.” Suddenly, Boromir finds it immensely difficult to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “I,” he says, hesitant. “I tried to take the ring from him.”

Aragorn’s eyes remain clear, blameless, as if Boromir’s actions were no fault of his own, and his hands close gently around Boromir’s shoulders, as he assesses the damage the Uruk’s arrows have wrought. “The ring is beyond our reach now,” he says. 

Boromir releases a soft sigh of relief at that; he will not be tempted by it again. Will not hurt others for the sake of it.

“It is over, then,” he says at last, his breaths growing ever shallower. “The Fellowship is sundered, our friends in the hands of the enemy. I have failed you all.” He would ask for forgiveness, but in the face of all he has done, does not think he deserves it. Does not think he has the right to ask for or deserve _anything_ , least of all this unexpected gentleness from Aragorn.

“No, Boromir, you fought bravely. You have kept your honour,” Aragorn says. The words hearten Boromir so, a plain reflection of his earlier words, of there being courage and honour to be found in Men, giving him the strength to hold on a moment longer. Aragorn takes this moment to close a hand around the arrows, to pull them out, but Boromir’s hand closes tight over his.

“Leave them!” Boromir hisses through the pain. He shakes his head, inhaling a soft, whistling breath before speaking. “It matters not if I have fought bravely this day. If I have fought with honour. The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness…and my city to ruin.” _With only my brother as its last bastion against the dark; our father’s mind has turned to madness by now, consumed as it is by weapons that serve only the enemy’s purpose_.

Aragorn continues on as if he has not heard Boromir’s request, carefully removing the arrowheads and quelling the flow of blood that wells forth with strips of cloth torn from his tunic. Thankfully, those arrowheads are not so large and barbed that he must dig deeply for them. “I do not know what strength is in me,” Aragorn says, sincere, “but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”

_Our people_. Boromir huffs a shallow laugh, even as blood stipples his lips and pain lances sharp through his ribs. So Aragorn has finally acknowledged the race of Men as his own. But the hour in which he does so is late; Boromir can feel blood soaking through the layers of his garments now, wet and filthy and cold. The fresh flow of it, a liquid red heat that surges into the rags Aragorn presses to his wounds. He will not live to see Aragorn lead their people to victory, or the fall of Mordor and all he has fought against all his days.

His life ebbs away with each beat of his heart, taking him further from this world. Further from _Faramir_. 

Boromir scrabbles weakly for his sword, and Aragorn allows him the press of it against his chest, though it does not stop his efforts at quelling the flow of blood. Does not keep him from nodding at Legolas in a moment of wordless, desperate communication. Boromir watches Legolas disappear swiftly beyond the crest of the hill, before turning back to Aragorn.

“I would—” Boromir manages, his words bogged down, heavy, as every part of him feels. It pains him to even draw breath, but if these words are to be his last, he would make them known. “I would have followed you, my brother. My captain. My _king_.” He draws his sword closer to his chest, for this oath of fealty. The oath to end all oaths. 

It crushes him to know it is the last he will ever swear, and he sees something crumple in Aragorn’s expression the same, before Aragorn sets his lips and furrows his brow.

“You will yet,” says Aragorn, his determination renewed, as he guides Boromir’s sword arm to the side. Legolas has returned with a cluster of broad-leaved weeds in his hands, and Aragorn crushes the leaves now, wetting them with water from his water skin to form a mulch in his hands. Presses the mixture against Boromir’s wounds, as he whispers old words, the likes of which Boromir has only heard from Gandalf, or from Faramir’s studies. A sweet fragrance, subtle and light, rises from the crushed leaves of the weed—no, _herb_ that Aragorn hopes to heal him with. 

_This must be the fabled athelas_ , Boromir thinks hazily. _Kingsfoil, in the hands of the King_.

“Come, Boromir,” Aragorn says, the words piercing through the veil that seems to have descended over Boromir, a gossamer-fine grayness that seems as though it will bear him away from this place. This pain. Boromir can hear the pleading in Aragorn’s voice, for him to stay awake. An entreaty for him not to slip into eternal slumber. “You said Gondor would see this done, would see the ring destroyed. You will stay true to your word, will you not?”

_Yes_ , Boromir thinks, _for Gondor_ , as trite as that sounds. And for Faramir. For a safer world in which his brother could be the scholar he wished to, and not the warrior life he was born into. 

He hopes Aragorn will live up to his promise that he will not let Minas Tirith fall; that at least his brother will be able to live in an era of peace. But no sooner than the thought comes, it skitters away, like a wisp of forgotten fog, and Boromir’s eyes slip shut once more, until he believes he is being borne along a floating cloud. One bearing him to a place of blissful light, urging him to succumb to it, to give in and let himself partake of this paradise. For a moment he can see a glade, bright, with birdsong and light, and his only lament is that Faramir is not there—

Aragorn grips Boromir’s shoulder again, shaking him, and pain spears through him like a shock of lightning, waking him again, shattering the pristine and lovely image. 

“You are a _warrior_ ,” Aragorn insists. “Of _Gondor_.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? One you have sworn to protect?” Clearly, Aragorn has realized that an appeal to his honor is not working, and is trying for the softer emotions. Something must change in Boromir’s expression, because Aragorn presses on. “A lady-love?” 

A love; his _only_ love. In his agony, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond. 

“Then think of him, and _live_. Live, that you may see him again, when we return to Gondor, victorious,” Aragorn declares. “Let the thought of him sustain you, even more so than the desire for silver trumpets to call you home. Beyond your need for the tower guard to take up the call of the Lords of Gondor having returned.” He grips Boromir securely, heartened that at last he has found what will give Boromir the will to live. “ _He_ will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you _will_ return home to him.”

Aragorn knows of Faramir by now, even if he does not know him by name, from the little Boromir had shared of his brother throughout their journey. And now, as he binds Boromir’s injuries with a roll of bandages from Gimli’s supply, keeping them clean until they can be stitched lest his wounds open again, Boromir breathes in deep, the memory of Faramir giving him new purpose. 

_Yes—yes, the thought of Faramir is what will get me through_ , Boromir decides, fierce. It takes a tremendous amount of focus, but the memories soon come easily enough; he begins recalling the easy cadence of Faramir’s voice, coupled with the sea-blue of his eyes. The gentleness of his fingers, so at odds with the battle-roughened callousness of his skin. The strength and heat of his embraces, both before and _after_ a battle, then those when there had been no battles at all, simply the two of them sharing heat and warmth and love. Just remembers _Faramir_ —the way he kisses, and teases, and laughs—and _oh_ that is Aragorn digging out the last, the deepest of the arrowheads, and blood surges from the wound instantly, hot and wet and red, before Aragorn presses another clump of shredded athelas to it. 

Even so, the pain is unbearable, and as Legolas and Gimli hurry to hold him down, Boromir cannot tell whether he has thought _Faramir, please_ , or screamed it, or sobbed it, just knows that his brother’s name in his head or on his lips is the only thing that sustains him through this suffering.

Suddenly, there is a touch of fingers to his forehead, his cheek, light and cool and comforting, and the agony abates, if only for a moment. “Rest, Boromir,” Aragorn says. His voice sounds as if it comes from a great distance away. “Rest now. The worst is over.”

Boromir blinks, blearily. Watches as Gimli hurries over with a rag, one wet with cool water, and presses it to Boromir’s forehead. Boromir is grateful for the gesture, small as it is, and makes a muffled noise of appreciation, but Gimli only looks upon him, worried. 

“He burns hotter than the greatest Dwarven forges,” he hears Gimli say, when Gimli lifts the rag to soak it anew and presses a calloused hand to Boromir’s brow. Only then does Boromir realize that the Uruk’s arrows must have been tipped with poison, and a fever is beginning to set in. “We should stay and make camp,” Gimli says. “Let Boromir have a night’s rest, before we set out to find the Uruks that took Merry and Pippin.”

Aragorn shakes his head, grim. “We cannot tarry here,” he says, eyeing the sun as it sinks slowly beyond the treeline. “By nightfall these shores will be crawling with Uruks.” He hefts Boromir’s weight up until Boromir is draped across his shoulders, and secures Boromir’s legs in the crook of his elbows. 

Boromir swallows an indignant squawk at being carried like this; the last time had been as a child, perched on his father’s shoulders as they gazed out from Minas Tirith’s highest circle, at the sprawling lands and hills that made up Gondor. And the time after that, it had been _Faramir_ he had carried, laughing, through the halls of the White Tower, as his brother bounced on his shoulders, whooping with a rare and precious joy. 

The memory of Faramir is strangely calming, Boromir’s fit of pique dissolving as soon as it is roused, and he lets Aragorn carry him like a child, out toward the shore where they had left the boats. Watches sleepily as Legolas and Gimli each heft the weight of an Elven craft between them, portaging it over the land, following the Anduin’s downward slant. 

Surely they did not think to _carry_ the boat to the foot of the Falls of Rauros, the slope being treacherous as it was?

“This,” Gimli grunts, his chest heaving with the effort, “was much easier when we could draw upon Boromir’s strength.” Boromir had helped their company carry the boats past the rapids of Sarn Gebir while Gimli had trodden alongside the Halflings, relieving those who required it in turns.

Aragorn laughs. “I shall let Boromir know this when he wakes; those words will surely be a comfort to him.” 

The words reach Boromir regardless, as if through a thick haze, and a small smile graces his lips as Gimli’s words register.

Gimli allows himself a chuckle, before lowering his voice. “I admit I have not always appreciated Boromir’s worth in the Fellowship,” he says, confiding in Aragorn solemnly. “But what right have I to judge his worth?” He shakes his head and sighs, dejected. “We have quarreled as well, but what brothers-in-arms have not? I would not wish this on any friend of mine…or a brother.”

_Oh, Gimli_ , thinks Boromir, moved. They had passed much of their time together on this journey in a quiet and mutual indifference, having had little reason to converse . And while Boromir had noticed Gimli regarding him differently—first, after their discovery of his cousin Balin’s tomb in Moria, when Boromir had pressed a hand to Gimli’s shoulder in sympathy, and again, after the loss of Gandalf, when he held the Dwarf as a gesture of comfort—he had not thought Gimli could feel this way.

Gimli says no more after that, only huffs and puffs in immense exertion, while Legolas navigates the way down with an easy and effortless grace.

Boromir lets his head loll against Aragorn’s neck, his eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion. He has heard, from the men he commanded, that in times of peril one’s life might flash before their eyes, with moments of happiness or anger or sorrow. But the peril is past for now, and he finds himself drifting instead into a soft, peaceful sleep. One that guides him along a path of much-loved and well-trodden memories, the ambience dream-like and warm. 

The memories come easier in sleep, than when Aragorn had urged him to summon the strength to remember. 

_Here_ is where he will find respite from the pain and weariness that harries him, Boromir decides, as he hears the distant crackle of a familiar fire from years ago. Feels the heat of it against his skin. 

_Here_ is where he can be with Faramir, despite his brother being so very far away…

“Boromir?” Aragorn tries, nudging him with a shoulder. 

But Boromir has already slipped into the world of dreams, his lips parted in a small smile. 

_Good_ , thinks Aragorn. It will make this leg of the journey that much easier on Boromir. He continues onward down the perilous slope alongside the Falls, glad for this reprieve, and for Boromir, too, that he has dreams to ease his fevered rest, so that he may find peace in his slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OST:**  
>  \- Boromir, against the Uruk: [Amon Hen – Various](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0KyhRkgThc)  
> \- Boromir, swearing his fealty: [The Departure of Boromir – Howard Shore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAI3YM_49MY)


	2. Remembrances

~

“Boromir.”

Boromir blinks, his eyes bleary, before the room he is in comes into focus. The room is spacious and cheery, with a fire blazing cozily in the hearth, and the windows, wide, let in the cornsilk spill of sunlight, all of it a far cry from the cold sepulchre Minas Tirith will become. 

These were the days of a distant past, when there was warmth, love, and laughter here still. 

His mother rests on the bed in the corner, a small bundle pressed to her chest, and instantly Boromir recalls the significance of this moment; cherishes the memory as one of his earliest and happiest. 

“Boromir,” she says again, gentle. Beckons him closer, careful not to disturb the fragile bundle in her arms. 

Boromir watches himself as a child, dragging his chair over, before he suddenly _is_ the child, the way such things are in dreams. He is no older than five years of age again, peering at the blanket-swaddled babe she has cradled against her chest. It howls so often and fiercely that even his father has left the room for his own peace of mind. 

So far, Boromir’s impression of this ‘baby’ is of a small, red-faced lump, whose skill set consists of squalling, hiccupping, and scrunching its tiny brow into a most unbecoming scowl. 

Still, he holds his arms out dutifully as his mother instructs, careful not to drop the squirming, softly sobbing bundle. But when Finduilas places the baby in Boromir’s arms, it settles immediately, with a quiet, gurgling sigh. 

He looks down at the tiny being cradled in his arms, its head crowned with a fine down of golden hair, cheeks rosy with color. Pokes it with a finger, amused when its mouth latches onto him and sucks as if he were his mother’s breast.

“This is Faramir,” Finduilas says, smiling. “Your brother.”

“Brother?” Boromir echoes, wrinkling his nose. The word, at present, seems synonymous with _eating_ , _sleeping_ , and _crying_. And on occasion, _soiling_. When told he would be blessed with a brother, Boromir had thought he would be brought someone brave and strong, perhaps a Captain of the Guard—not this helpless creature, no larger than a doll.

Finduilas laughs, and Boromir’s heart aches at the sound, the bright chime of it beautiful, like bells, like music long-forgotten. “Yes,” she says, carding her fingers through Boromir’s hair, as he nestles into his mother’s side. “You must protect him. Cherish him. He will be your strength in the days to come. And you will be his.”

Boromir eyes the bundle in his arms, unconvinced. Watches the baby smack its lips, smelling of milk and sweetness, as it wriggles aimlessly in the cloth it is swaddled in. Then for one glorious moment, it blinks, gazing at Boromir with eyes of bluest blue, lips curving into a rare half-smile. Reaches out and clutches Boromir’s nose, with the tiny, perfect hand it has worked free.

_Oh_ , thinks Boromir, a surge of affection swelling high in his chest. He draws the soft, lovely warmth of his brother—of _Faramir_ —close, and lays a kiss on his forehead, gentle.

_He is mine to protect_ , Boromir remembers deciding, at that moment. _He is mine to cherish._

_He is_ mine.

~

It is not long before the memory of his first meeting with Faramir gives way to another, and Boromir follows the loose, shimmering threads of the dream-path until he finds himself in another room, several years down the road.

As before, there is a welcoming fire crackling in the hearth, but the sprawling tapestries of the White Tree and the elaborately furnished bed are absent; instead, there are crates of weapons along the wall, on either side of a half-made bed. A messy stash of books lining the shelves, next to an ornamental display of swords perched delicately on miniature corbels. A battered, well-used rug opposite the hearth.

This is _Boromir’s_ room, a place of comfort and safety and affection.

It was often, when their father would berate Faramir about some failing of his or another, that Faramir would find Boromir in his room and burrow into his arms. Bury his face in Boromir’s belly to dry his tears on the soft fabric of Boromir’s tunic. 

_Hush, little one_ , Boromir would say, stroking his feather-soft hair and rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

Boromir would let Faramir curl into his sheets—the same blankets Boromir would teasingly throw over his brother and record how long it took him to escape—and when he was safely snuggled in their warmth, Boromir would read to him, retelling tales of great battles and embellishing the feats of heroes of old, as their mother had done when she was alive. Faramir could be assured, that when he hovered on the edge of sleep, Boromir would curl up behind him and take him into his arms until Faramir could find slumber, away from expectation and duty and the ever-growing wrath of their father. Would be Faramir’s shield, against the harshness of the world, both from within their home, and without. 

Other times, Faramir would slip into his room simply to enjoy his company, joining Boromir on the battered blue rug, with his own books on Elven history and Dwarven lore. Would share his findings in return for such knowledge as the proper grip of a sword. The ideal weight for a shield.

On this night, however, Faramir seems to have come with a certain purpose in mind.

He had joined Boromir on the hearth-facing rug as was his wont, sharing the space with him easily out of habit. But instead of reading, Boromir finds that Faramir has been subtly watching him all night, his eyes slightly glazed and his pupils blown wide. A dreamy half-smile tugs at his lips, each time his eyes dart over the top of his book to sneak a shy glance at Boromir. 

In turn, Boromir watches Faramir discreetly, noting the shadows the flickering light casts upon his face. The way the fire highlights the red of his autumn-gold hair. The manner in which Faramir puckers his rosebud mouth when pursing his lips in thought.

He has never looked more beautiful than he does now, and—

Too late, he notices Faramir watching him back, a slight tilt to his head, curious. Boromir hides quickly behind the wide cover of his book, mortified, a burning heat flushing his cheeks. He is a poor liar, and any moment now, Faramir will discover the secret he has been trying so hard to hide: that at some point, Faramir had become indispensable to him, had become _everything_ in his life, and his feelings for Faramir had far transcended that of the fraternal, even if he could not pinpoint just how and when it had happened. 

Perhaps it had been their heightened closeness following their mother’s death. Or the way Faramir continually sought his presence or comfort in his arms that made him such a constant fixture in Boromir’s life, that he found himself hard-pressed to go a day without seeing the warmth of Faramir’s smile. Hearing the brightness of his laugh. Regardless, these were things he could not tell Faramir, could never let him _know_ , for fear of Faramir hating him. That he had betrayed their sacrosanct relationship as brothers for the idea of something _more_ , something—

Boromir startles, nearly dropping his book when Faramir wriggles his way into Boromir’s arms. Settles between Boromir and the book, nestling in between knees and hips and elbows, before pressing the back of his head against Boromir’s chest. 

“I,” Faramir tries, and Boromir can hear the audible _click_ of his throat as he swallows, “I thought I felt a draft.”

“Sit closer to the fire, then,” Boromir huffs, even as he wraps his arms more securely around Faramir, indulging him. Shuffles their amalgamation of rug-books-brothers closer to the grate, letting the heat of the fire wash over them. 

They rest on the rug in silence, enjoying the lovely warmth for short moments, before Boromir rests his chin on Faramir’s feather-soft hair. Breathes in its fresh, honeyed scent as he closes his eyes. He wonders how he ever did without Faramir; how—when he was old enough to search for the meanings of their names in Minas Tirith’s archives—his parents could have named his brother _Faramir_ , for _‘sufficient’ jewel_ , when ever he has been the embodiment of _vital_ and _needed_ and _essential_ —

“Boromir?”

“Mmhn.” Boromir’s eyes flutter open, and at the sound of Faramir’s voice, small and scared, he sighs. He has lost the skein of his thoughts, but it is probably for the best. “Faramir? What is it that troubles—”

“I love you,” Faramir says softly. His small hands wrap around Boromir’s as he tucks himself further into Boromir’s space.

“Oh,” says Boromir, heart fluttering in his chest like a panicked songbird. “I—yes, as do I, Faramir.” 

He reaches up to smother Faramir’s hair. Leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. It is the coward’s way to share this sentiment, Boromir knows, because this way, he can hide his own expression. Will not have to see disgust or fear on Faramir’s. If Faramir only knew the nature of Boromir’s affection, he would turn Boromir away, would not come willingly to what he had once thought of as only a brother’s embrace!

No—to have him like this, soft and willing and adoring, is enough, and Boromir knows better than to hope for more. 

Faramir stills Boromir’s hand, his fingers curling about Boromir’s wrist. He turns then, and _oh_ , Boromir can see what he is about to say, can see what is in his heart as plain as day; for all the walls Faramir has thrown up around himself against their father’s harsh words, he wears his heart on his sleeve in Boromir’s presence. And for all that Boromir has been lauded for his courage, his fearless heart, it is Faramir who is steadfast and brave when it counts.

“I love you as more than a brother,” Faramir says, his voice whisper-quiet. His eyes are wide and round, and Boromir can feel him trembling. As if he is afraid Boromir will judge him for this, will throw him out of his room, denouncing him as corrupt and disowning him as kin. 

Boromir swallows hard, around the hope and elation knotting tight in his throat; he had not imagined Faramir would feel this way, much less be the first to speak. 

“Oh, _Faramir_ ,” Boromir says at last. He laughs, relieved, in the soft, sunset glow of the firelight, and squeezes Faramir’s hand reassuringly. Thinks to ask Faramir if he is _sure_ of his feelings, for this is no light matter. But Faramir speaks with such seriousness, such _conviction_ , that he knows Faramir indeed knows his own heart, and so, he would not make Faramir wait in this. “As do I,” Boromir repeats, more gently this time.

Faramir makes a sound that is bright and sweet, and all kinds of ecstatic. “Then it is as I hoped!” he exclaims, fear vanishing from his face, replaced by genuine delight. 

He throws his arms about Boromir’s neck in the most heartfelt embrace, and as he topples Boromir to the floor, Boromir’s heart fills with a giddy joy, for Faramir is now _his_ , in all the ways that matter. 

In all the ways he has wanted.

Reliving this memory warms Boromir to the core with a happiness he has not known in _months_. So it is all too soon when the pleasing, familiar warmth of the hearth twists away, pulling him into a memory that is colder, crueler—one set much farther in the future, amidst the broken masonry of Osgiliath.

~

“Good speech,” says Faramir, his hands gripping Boromir’s forearms, firm. “Nice and short.”

Boromir’s speech, made from atop a ruined spire, had been effective enough; the crowd of soldiers below had been roused into joyous fervor by the very words _Let the armies of Mordor know this: never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands!_ Each and every one of them had fought hard to win their part of Osgiliath back from the Orcs, and in this reprieve is their time to celebrate, before the inevitable return to battle. 

Now, though, Boromir takes a moment to appreciate how Faramir’s hands have closed around his elbows—a solid weight, much like the steadfast support he has always been. The way his hair glows autumn-bright in the sunlight, such that there is. And the sound of his laughter, soft and warm and real, is enough to chase away the long shadows the enemy had cast over Boromir’s heart, if only just.

Seeing Faramir wind his way through archers and soldiers both in a bid to be first to greet him, even after so arduous a battle, had warmed Boromir thoroughly. And despite the filth of battle smeared over his tunic, the ridge of his cheek, Faramir looks now the very paragon of beauty, a sentiment he is sure Faramir shares of him; Boromir knows he must be a sorry sight, with his dented cuirass, his tattered cloak, blood and ichor crusted over his mail armour entire, and still— _still_ Faramir had flung his arms wide open for embrace and Boromir had sailed into them, unabashed, both of them forgetting themselves in the moment. Reveling in the sheer and mutual relief that they had both made it from the battle alive.

They have less than a moment to enjoy the warmth of each other’s arms before they must pull away, but as Boromir draws back, Faramir hangs on, _clings_ , like stubborn lichen to rock. So Boromir lets his arms come up to clasp Faramir’s again, helpless. Lets them have this, even in light of all the soldiers and Rangers who surround them, because surely, in this commotion, this celebratory din, a less-than-brotherly gesture such as theirs would be overlooked.

“ _Short?_ ” Boromir laughs of Faramir’s jibe at his speech. He arches a brow, even as he squeezes Faramir’s upper arm, teasing. “It leaves more time for drinking!”

And the way Faramir beams at that, bright, the endearing way his eyes crease at the corners with the broadness of his grin, makes Boromir want to drag him away, behind the battered watchtower in the part of Osgiliath no one dares go. To kiss him senseless, until his lips are cherry-red and swollen with proof of their passion. To paint his neck with rose-colored bruises, and rake his hands through Faramir’s hair until he looks so thoroughly _debauched_ that there is no doubt as to whom Faramir belongs. 

But Boromir keeps his mouth and lips and hands to himself, through a great effort of will. Dares to slide searching fingers only far enough to clasp Faramir’s shoulders in an age-old show of camaraderie, even as his thumbs dip traitorously into the line of Faramir’s collarbone. 

_The things I would do to you_ , Boromir muses, _were we alone this very instant_. “Break out the ale!” he calls aloud instead, drawing away from such treacherous thoughts. “These men are thirsty!” 

In the joyful clamor following their Captain’s decree, of soldiers only too glad for this chance to indulge, no one minds that he and Faramir are holding each other still. No one sees the way Boromir keeps his gaze fixed on Faramir, taking in the sight of his brother’s unbridled joy and keeping it safe, like a perfect pearl of happiness in his heart.

And few, if any of them, notice when Boromir leads Faramir away by the hand, for a private celebration of their own.

“As I was saying, that was a rousing victory speech you made back there,” Faramir nods, as they pass beneath an old archway, nearing a set of ale kegs from which Boromir fills two goblets. He mimics Boromir’s pose from atop the spire, confidence and assurance in every inch of his stance, hand held high with the draw of an invisible sword. A playful smile curves his lips as he mouths the words _For Gondor!_ “And your battle cry itself? That was…” Faramir pauses, searching for the right word. “Awe-inspiring. Patriotic. And so _very_ abridged—”

“Be quiet, you,” laughs Boromir, recognizing Faramir’s teasing for what it is. “You may speak only when you have established a battle cry of your own.” He would shake a finger in Faramir’s face in reprimand, but his hands are full at present, and it would not do to spill their first celebratory drinks in so long, stale as the ale is. “Besides, it is the nature of battle cries to _be_ abridged.”

Faramir hums, amused. “I am sure I could still come up with better.”

“Oh?” Boromir asks. “Would you dedicate your battle to the city, then? To its people?” He skims the excess foam from Faramir’s goblet with the spout of the keg, and grins when Faramir simply blinks at him. “I thought not. You could do no better than _Gondor_ , for those are the lands we govern and defend.”

Faramir sniffs at that, in a way that could almost be considered haughty. “I have no need to dedicate my battles to all the lands and beyond.” He beckons Boromir closer, and as Faramir’s lips brush his ear, the warmth of his breath sends a thrill of anticipation down Boromir’s spine. “For _Boromir_ ,” Faramir whispers, fierce. He leans back, arms folded over his chest as he tilts his chin upward, defiant. “That would be _my_ battle cry, I suppose.” He stifles a laugh as Boromir sputters and nearly spills his goblet of ale. 

“ _Enough_ about that,” huffs Boromir, sure that his face flushes the exact shade of crimson he so often enjoys on Faramir. He is careful not to let their gloved fingers rest together overlong, as he presses Faramir’s goblet into his hands. Knocks his own goblet into it in a toast. “Remember today, little brother,” he smiles. “Today, life is good.”

That they may share in the flush of victory and in drink like this today, together and whole and _alive_ , is a marvel, one Boromir would drink to. And by Faramir’s matching grin, it seems he shares the sentiment completely. 

They drink a draught each from their own goblets, long and deep and full, before Boromir notices Faramir watching him, steadily, over the rim of his goblet, his half-lidded gaze fixed on Boromir’s mouth. 

“Boromir,” Faramir murmurs, quiet. His lips are parted in a soft, wistful smile, one that sends a warm flutter through Boromir’s chest, and his hand inches forward, slow, as if to bring his goblet to Boromir’s lips. Hoping Boromir might do the same, that they might drink of each other’s ale, in a toast more intimate than celebratory. 

Boromir shakes his head, the motion almost imperceptible. 

Secluded beneath the archway as they are, any one of Boromir’s soldiers or Faramir’s Rangers could stumble upon them in a bid to refill their tankards, and such a gesture could not be explained away by their fraternal bond. A hearty embrace following a hard-won battle was one thing; drinking from each other’s goblets like a pair of newly-wedded lovebirds was another. 

Denial of the action does not stop them from _wanting_ , however, and they watch each other, desire stirring only in their eyes, with wary smiles at the corners of their mouths. At least, until Faramir’s eyes dart away from his, and he deflates against the wall, looking the very picture of disappointment. 

It cannot be helped; they have grown from soft, affectionate touches, innumerable in their childhood, to the careful and controlled contact of adulthood, especially in the presence of others. Even in embrace, Boromir would let them revel in each other’s warmth for less than a moment, preferring to save their fiery embraces for the night. 

This, then, was his way of protecting his brother. 

He would be damned before seeing either of them exiled, or worse, burned at the stake, a punishment awaiting those who lay with other men—though their crime would be twofold, their lover a man and brother both; there would be nothing left of them after immolation for the first charge alone.

They have managed to scrape by all this time on scraps of affection, of stolen kisses and embraces between days, _months_ of separation, when Faramir departed to lead an expedition of Rangers through Ithilien to ambush the enemy, or when Boromir was sent to lead patrols along the outer borders of Gondor. Then Faramir had flung arms around him short moments ago, his embrace crushingly tight, and Boromir was _lost_. He had been helpless to resist the warmth, the comfort, and had given in, just like that, allowing Faramir’s arms to linger on elbows and forearms, while his own traitorous hands skimmed the line of Faramir’s shoulders, his waist, aching to go lower, to curl over Faramir’s hips as Boromir traced the dip of his throat with his lips, mapped the inside of Faramir’s mouth with his tongue—

“Boromir?” Faramir asks, interrupting his thoughts, and all at once, Boromir realizes his gaze has also been fixed on Faramir’s mouth, in the same guilty desire. He swipes his tongue over his own lip, trying desperately not to think of pressing his thumb into the fullness of _Faramir’s_.

“Later,” Boromir manages, a bare whisper, fanning the tiny flame of hope in Faramir’s eyes. Yes, later, under the cover of night, they might…

The thought of _later_ wilts under the incandescence of Faramir’s smile, spreading slowly across his face like a swathe of melting honey and sunlight.

Something catches in Boromir’s chest at the sight, and whether it is his breath or his heart, he knows not. He knows only that he loves this, watching the way his brother’s features soften in the light, with such _hope_ in his eyes; it reminds him of their younger days, when the world was fairer and the days free from care, and Faramir’s eyes had been bright with wonder instead of deadened by the horrors of war.

Against his better judgment, Boromir finds himself reaching for Faramir, wanting to cup Faramir’s cheek in his palm and nip his lower lip with just the softest tug of teeth. To lick away the froth from the ale that has gathered on his upper lip, before licking boldly into Faramir’s mouth to claim the taste of him, the familiar sweetness he is sure to find. 

By the way Faramir’s gaze meets his, his eyes hooded and dark, it seems Faramir wishes to do the same, if not _more_. 

Boromir loves the flare of hope in Faramir’s eyes, the warmth of his smile too much to deny him this, and he has been holding back the tide of his affections for so _long_ , that before he knows it, he has curled fingers around Faramir’s wrist. Delights in the motion of Faramir’s fingers shifting to twine back through his own. He would lead Faramir to the abandoned watchtower _now_ , to press him hard against dulled and broken stone and kiss him until he was gasping for breath. Until he was scrabbling at the loose stone for purchase, or clawing at Boromir’s back for air. Surely in all this commotion, they would not be missed—

Suddenly, Faramir’s smile fades, a candle’s flame extinguished all too soon by the bitter wind. 

“What is it?” Boromir asks, sorry to see Faramir’s good humor vanish so quickly. His own brow furrows, a mirror of Faramir’s expression, but he does not release Faramir’s hand in a blind panic. 

“ _He_ is here,” Faramir says, frowning, his eyes fixed on a point just over Boromir’s shoulder.

Boromir forces himself to break his gaze away from Faramir, away from where he has been drinking in the sight of his brother like wine, secreting the image away for darker nights, when there would be little warmth and light to be had—and notices their father immediately. Denethor strikes a severe and imposing figure, even as he weaves his way through the crowd of soldiers with false reassurances and insincere congratulations on his lips. 

“Where is Gondor’s finest?” Denethor calls. “Where is my firstborn?”

Boromir sighs. _Father is here, and he will come this way soon enough_. Such is the fate of the sons of the steward of Gondor; they are not to be afforded one moment of peace, not even one following a hard-won victory. His fingers tighten around Faramir’s for all of a moment, a silent plea of _Give me strength_ , before he is forced to release them, reluctant. Even then, he lets the tips of his fingers skim the backside of Faramir’s hand. As if to say, _This is not yet over; we will continue this later_.

With a quick nod, Faramir catches his hand and squeezes once—a subtle and wordless reassurance, before Boromir steps into Denethor’s view, his gait steady and self-assured, despite the sway from the weight of his armour.

“Father!” Boromir calls, throwing on the widest smile he can bear. 

It is no longer the genuine smile of days past, when the man before him still remembered how to _be_ a father, instead of hiding in his high tower and consulting strange, nebulous powers to track the enemy’s movements. But even if Boromir’s smiles—the ones that come from the heart, ones that crease his eyes in the corners like his brother’s—have long been for Faramir alone, Boromir does what he must to maintain the façade, of being the model son, soldier, and captain Denethor has come to expect.

All Boromir remembers after that is his father’s insincere embrace, the words _Bring me back this mighty gift_

_this mighty gift_

_gift_

and his answer of _My place is here with my people, not in Rivendell!_ , the only time Boromir can actively recall disobeying this order of Denethor’s. But their father had insisted time and time again that the ring was a gift, a boon against the dark forces of Mordor they kept at bay. It was this conversation that had set in motion his ill-fated journey, these words that had set him on the path to ruin, and Boromir struggles to turn away from the memory, only to find that all around him is the cold stone of Osgiliath, with no escape in sight, and his father’s voice increases in volume, the sound of it unnaturally loud, as if he is shouting from within Boromir’s mind itself. 

_You must go, bring me back—_

_No!_ thinks Boromir desperately.

_—this mighty gift!_

_No, no,_ no, Boromir tries, clawing for escape within these walls but finding none; he does not want to continue down this path, does not want to think of anything regarding the One Ring, not _here_ in this dream-world, where he was promised safety and happiness. He does not want to remember the soft, sibilant voice of the ring, tempting him with its dark promises, of glory, of being Gondor’s savior, but most of all, of the safety of his people, of _Faramir_ —

And as if something hears his thoughts, the pure desperation of his pleading, the silhouettes of Osgiliath, Faramir, and Denethor fade into a yawning blackness, granting him merciful reprieve in the form of his familiar chambers within Minas Tirith.

~

_Yes_ , thinks Boromir, with a soft sigh of relief, his gaze sweeping the room.

He takes in the sight of books haphazardly stacked within shelves. The boar’s pelt adorning the south wall. The crates of weapons lining the wall on either side of the bed. And as he rises from his bed, resting back on his elbows, Boromir revels in the soft, silken whisper of the sheets against his skin. The familiar warmth of the crimson duvet. 

_I remember this_ , he thinks, breathing in the scent of slow-burning firewood in the air. _This was the night before I rode for Rivendell_.

The room is as dim as he recalls, illuminated only by the light of the moon and the fading fire in the grate. Boromir had fallen into bed, his limbs sore and his mind weary, not only from the battle at Osgiliath but from the rounds of verbal sparring with his father, away from the other soldiers. Away from Faramir. He had tried to make Denethor see reason, that his journeying to Rivendell together with Faramir would be the safer choice, but had been rebutted at every turn. 

Their father would trust this mission only to Boromir, the one who would not _fail him_ , as Denethor had said. As if any endeavor Faramir made was doomed for failure from the start.

Eventually Boromir had thrown his hands up in exasperation and stormed out of the Tower Hall. Crawled exhausted into his sheets, too tired to stoke the embers of the dying fire, with the remote hope that perhaps Faramir would come to him, as it was _his_ turn to make the trek between their rooms tonight. Boromir feels a small flicker of shame that he is keeping score, but cannot bring himself to care, especially if it means Faramir in his bed, soft and pliant and warm against him. 

The thought of his brother makes Boromir ache for his presence, and he curls into his sheets, hoping for Faramir to make haste. To slip into bed behind him and wind an arm about Boromir’s shoulders and chest, touching gentle wisps of kisses to the nape of his neck. The hollow behind his ear. To imprint memory of himself into Boromir’s mind and heart and soul enough to last his whole journey through. 

As the hours pass, however, Boromir supposes his brother will not come after all. 

Their father had seemed ever vigilant of Boromir, hoping to keep a watchful eye on him under the guise of fatherly concern; had suggested posting a guard by Boromir’s chambers, that he might find a more ‘restful sleep’ before his journey. Boromir had narrowly escaped that fate by contending that if he was trusted enough to represent Gondor at Lord Elrond’s council, he could be trusted to make it through a single night in Minas Tirith unscathed. Denethor conceded the point, then promptly posted a guard in the _halls_ to Boromir’s chambers instead, no doubt to ensure that his sons would not steal away to Rivendell together in the night. 

When he wakes yet again without Faramir nestled into his side, Boromir is of a mind to bully his way past the guard and storm over to Faramir’s room himself, Faramir’s _turn_ be damned. So his heart soars higher than the heights of the towering Argonath, when the telltale creak of his door handle shakes him from his repose.

Boromir shifts over immediately in the bed, the motion habitual from long years of their nightly visits, leaving room enough for Faramir to slip in behind him. Sure enough, Faramir crosses the floorboards quietly, shedding his tunic and leggings before lifting the sheets and sliding naturally into the space Boromir has left. Winds an arm around Boromir’s waist, before pressing soft, precious kisses to the nape of his neck. The curve of his shoulder. Maps the contours of corded muscle with warm, gentle presses of lips.

“What took you so long?” Boromir murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. He covers Faramir’s arm around his waist with his own, chafing warmth back into cool skin. “I thought I would have to set out for Rivendell without holding you once more.”

Faramir snorts, nipping the base of Boromir’s neck in reproach. “I had to wait until the guard at the hall had gone to relieve himself.” He nudges his knees into Boromir’s space, until their hips and thighs are flush against each other, his body a perfect match of Boromir’s. Buries his face into Boromir’s neck with a soft, wounded sound. 

“What is it, Faramir?” Boromir asks. He shifts in Faramir’s arms, turning to face him, and wonders if he can tease Faramir from his melancholy. “Have you come to make another night-time confession?” He lets his fingers wander over the jut of Faramir’s hip. Squeezes, playful. “Or have you felt another draft?”

“Ha,” says Faramir dryly. He throws an elbow into Boromir’s ribs, vindictive, a sore reminder that Faramir is no longer the sweet, clumsy baby Boromir could cradle in his arms, nor a gangling youth, but a _man_. “Had I kept my silence back then, we would not be here today.” At Boromir’s own silence now, of how true that is, how all they shared between them might never have been, Faramir asks, “Do you regret—”

“ _No_ ,” Boromir says vehemently, cupping the nape of Faramir’s neck and bringing their mouths together for a kiss that is fierce and hot and _hard_. “Never.” He smoothes a wisp of Faramir’s hair behind his ear. Brushes his lips against Faramir’s again, gentler. “I could never regret you, Faramir. I would never regret _us_.”

Faramir huffs a laugh at that, soft and relieved, and Boromir takes the moment to trace the outline of Faramir’s lips in the near-dark with his thumb, to memorize the peaks and valleys of Faramir’s happiness. The exact shape of his mouth curved in a smile. The unique crest of his cheekbone and the perfect, precious line of his jaw in such rare moments of joy. 

“Boromir,” Faramir whispers, his hand covering Boromir’s as Boromir curls a palm, gentle, along his cheek. His smile falters. “I wish you would not leave,” he says slowly. “Not yet. Not _tomorrow_.”

Boromir swallows hard at the words, knowing by the way Faramir presses into his space, curls their fingers together so desperately, that he means _Not ever_.

“If I could but speak to Father again…” Faramir tries, hesitant. “Perhaps he might—”

With a sigh, Boromir leans in and presses their foreheads together. “You know Father,” he says. “He has made his mind up on the matter and will not be swayed.” _Not even by the coaxing and cajoling from the firstborn he so claims to cherish_. “Should you speak with him again, he will still send only _one_ of us to Rivendell, to attend Lord Elrond’s council.” Boromir shakes his head. “No, if there is to be journey to be made, if it is a perilous one, I would not have you make it.” 

He leans back for all of a moment, letting his thumb stroke gentle lines into the softness beneath Faramir’s cheekbone. Skims questing fingers along the stubble of his jaw.

_This is one who is precious to me_ , Boromir thinks fiercely, as he takes in his brother’s visage. _This is whom I must protect_. 

Claiming this task, then, would be his way of protecting Faramir. 

In mere moments, even the short distance he has leaned away is too much, and he finds himself nosing at the warm space behind Faramir’s ear. The hollow beneath his jaw. Nestles into the cradle of Faramir’s hips as his brother slips arms beneath his shoulders, loose.

“I like this not,” Faramir frowns, his lips set in a moue of concern that Boromir can feel against skin, from a light kiss of Faramir’s own. “Boromir, your journey will be fraught with peril.”

“Yes, yes,” Boromir says, pressing a trail of feathery kisses along the column of Faramir’s throat. He would wave his other hand in gentle dismissal, were it not curled safely over Faramir’s hip. “The old causeways are all but crumbled ruins, and many of the bridges in the land have fallen into disrepair. I _know_ this, Faramir. No doubt the journey will be made all the harder for it, but I shall find my way, regardless.”

“I speak not only of the way to Rivendell,” Faramir says, his voice oddly hoarse. “In my dreams, I have seen…” His voice falters, his fingers clutching desperately at Boromir’s shoulders. 

Boromir winds his arms around Faramir’s waist immediately, to reassure and encourage. When no words are forthcoming, he nudges Faramir in the belly. “What is it you have seen?” Faramir’s gift of foresight is vague at best, but it was he who had first dreamt of the voice telling them to seek out the Elves’ land, even before their father urged Boromir’s journey to Rivendell, and Boromir puts stock in Faramir’s visions, even if Denethor does not.

“No, I—it was nothing,” says Faramir, as if not speaking his vision aloud will keep it from coming true. “Have a care on your journey,” is all he adds, cryptic.

“Keep your secrets, then,” Boromir huffs. He presses a kiss to Faramir’s brow. “In any case, I shall tell you all I have learned when I return.”

Faramir seems inexplicably heartened by this simple statement, as if by it, Boromir has promised his return. “Swear it,” he says fiercely. He jabs Boromir in the ribs again. “Swear that you _will_ return.”

“Yes, all _right_ , I swear it,” Boromir laughs. “Demanding little toad,” he adds, but he kisses Faramir’s brow again and ruffles his hair, fond. 

“Enough,” Faramir grouses. “I am no child.” He tugs Boromir into the space between them, as if the distance—any distance—is too much, reeling him in for a kiss on the mouth proper. 

It goes unspoken between them that Boromir must save his strength for the grueling journey ahead, so they share only that kiss, which leads to another, then another, gentle touches of lips that shift into teeth and tongue and bruising desperation, until Boromir is nipping sharply at Faramir’s bottom lip, cupping Faramir’s neck with a palm as his other hand claws into Faramir’s back—

“ _Wait_ ,” Faramir says, panting, between kisses. Even as he arches into Boromir’s touch, _strains_ into it, he places a hand on Boromir’s chest to keep his distance. “You will have need of your strength for the journey to come. Perhaps upon your return—”

Boromir silences him with a swift kiss to the mouth, but he lets his hand slip away from Faramir’s waist. Knits their fingers together, a compromise, as they share more careful, controlled kisses in lieu of other intimacies tonight. 

They manage well enough until Faramir twists his hand free of Boromir’s to close his arms around Boromir’s shoulders, and Boromir winds arms tight around Faramir’s waist, and before long, Faramir, against his own advice, closes the distance between them in one lunging, breathless kiss. Twists fingers into Boromir’s thin undershirt until Boromir is forced to shrug the garment off—something he does not mind at _all_ —and tugs him in close, holding Boromir like he is something dear, something Faramir cannot live without. 

By then, neither of them can help themselves, and their kisses lead to bites and nips and touching of tongues, until Boromir has tangled hands into Faramir’s hair, loved rose hip bruises along his collarbone and nibbled cherry kisses into the underside of his jaw. 

“ _Boromir_ ,” Faramir gasps, keening as Boromir dips his tongue into the shell of Faramir’s ear. 

It breaks the spell between them instantly, and Boromir grips his brother’s shoulders to keep him at arm’s length. Faramir looks so bereft at the loss, however, that Boromir draws him close once more. Cradles his brother’s cheek, gentle, wishing there was some way that Faramir might know the depth of Boromir’s love for him, even if he cannot demonstrate it as fully as he wishes tonight.

“Faramir, I lo—” he tries, before fear seizes his words, steals them from the heart of him and chokes them where they lie unspoken, in his throat. “You know I—” 

It is wholly irrational, this child-like fear that if Boromir says what he means, what they have between them will disappear like a wisp of smoke. He knows it, and yet…

“I know,” says Faramir. He slips his arms around Boromir’s waist now, laying a kiss to his brow to calm the trembling. “I know.” Presses their foreheads together, offering comfort in each further point of contact, at noses and bellies, knees and toes.

Boromir lets himself settle into Faramir’s embrace, burrowing tightly into Faramir’s arms, as if they are a haven, a safe harbor from the storm. He cannot imagine a life without Faramir and the affection he offers, the quiet and sound counsel he gives, and the unwavering support he has devoted to Boromir all the years of their lives.

_May the Valar protect us_ , Boromir thinks somberly, _should our love come to light. All the world would be against us for this_.

“Come,” says Faramir, gentle, interrupting Boromir’s thoughts as he maneuvers Boromir with small tugs and nudges. “Come into the light, brother. Let me see you.”

And while Boromir is grateful for this distraction, from his thoughts of how hopeless their love is, he cannot help but feel like Faramir means to say, _Let me see you, one last time_. Still, he lets Faramir draw him closer to the window. The dying fire. Helps Faramir along by shifting into his space with a mock grumble. He hears a laugh that rings too low and false, as Faramir says something like _Let me see your fool expression after such a rare profession_ , before Boromir’s breath catches in his throat. 

Now that they are not kissing and Boromir’s attention is drawn away from Faramir’s kiss-reddened lips, he can see in the moonlight that Faramir’s eyes are redder still. Swollen, as if he has been weeping. Even now, as he clutches Boromir to him, tight, as if he cannot bear to lose him, his eyes are lined with tears unshed. 

Something breaks in Boromir’s chest at the sight, and he presses kisses upon kisses to Faramir’s nose and cheeks and lips, hoping they will heal the hurt in Faramir’s heart. 

_Oh, Faramir_ , Boromir wants to say. _What have you seen that saddens you so?_ But he decides to say nothing of it for now; only folds Faramir into his arms, holding him and holding him as if he never will again.

Then the room seems to twist in on itself, contorting like so much crumpled parchment, and the remnant heat of the fire fades away. The sleepy warmth of Faramir against him vanishes. And as much as Boromir grasps in the dark, fumbling for a hold on his brother, his sheets, anything to anchor him to this moment, that he might stay by Faramir’s side and abide by his silent wish of _Don’t go, don’t leave me_ , Boromir’s hands close on nothing but air.

Faramir slips out of his hands like smoke, airy and immaterial, and suddenly it is too bright, the full light of dawn spilling through the windows, casting golden slivers along the floorboards of his room. 

And when Boromir looks down at the assembly of things strewn along his bed, he knows exactly which memory he has been unceremoniously cast into now.

~

_I thought_ , Boromir frowns to himself, _that dreams in such times were meant to revisit memories of happiness_. He eyes the carefully packed bedroll lying on his duvet, the burgundy fur-lined cloak tossed over it. _And peace_.

Because despite the happiness this remembrance brings, it had, like all the recent ones, been tinted with sadness also; it was the morning of his and Faramir’s parting, before Boromir set out for Rivendell. His last memory of Faramir, bittersweet as it was, that sustained him through many cold, dark nights after.

The sun had risen all too soon, and while Faramir slipped away before dawn to avoid arousing suspicion from the maidservants and guards, he had returned following breakfast to help Boromir pack his supplies for the journey.

“I thought you might be able to use this,” Faramir says now, rummaging through a satchel slung over his shoulder. He had stepped quietly into Boromir’s room, and reveals now a sackcloth bag in much the same discreet manner. 

The bag is light but sturdy, with a stitched leather exterior, and upon opening it, Boromir finds a pouch with an assortment of dried meats, fruits, and hard cheeses. A map, wrapped in oilcloth, that is a perfect duplicate of the one in their father’s council room, copied painstakingly onto fresh parchment, and appended with details from older manuscripts and tomes Faramir must have encountered. A large water skin, one of Faramir’s own, that he used when traveling between Minas Tirith and the Rangers’ hideout at Henneth Annûn. And sheathed in simple leather is a hunting knife, one Boromir has no doubt Faramir had sharpened anew for him. 

These are all foods that will keep for the journey ahead, items he will sorely need when he sets out through the wild lands.

Boromir admires the knife, drawing it from its sheath to test the weight and grip of it, examining the finely honed blade. Fastens the leather scabbard of the sheathed knife to his belt, before crushing Faramir into a sudden and full-bodied hug that has his brother gasping for breath. Nuzzles his neck, eliciting a rare, wheezy giggle from Faramir.

“By the inhuman strength of your embrace, I assume you approve of my gifts,” Faramir snorts. He makes no attempt to fight his way out of Boromir’s arms despite his complaint, however, and when Boromir finally steps back, Faramir lets his hands linger on Boromir’s forearms for longer than necessary, thoughtful. 

“ _Yes_ ,” says Boromir, nodding. “The knife especially will aid me in the hunt for food when there are neither allies nor villages in sight.” By the way Faramir beams at that, Boromir can tell that this is the exact purpose of his gift. “Thank you, Faramir.”

And as Faramir nods in acknowledgement of his thanks, Boromir takes pleasure in the rose flush that colors Faramir’s cheeks. Grins, sly. “I suppose, though,” he teases, “that this means you have been at the larder _again_.” He tips a nod at the generous portions of food Faramir has procured for him, and wags a finger in Faramir’s face. “What would the cooks say if they found you stealing from the kitchens again?”

Faramir purses his lips, indignant. “We are no longer children; they cannot banish us for taking what we _need_. Besides, you have sorer need for these provisions than half the old windbags our father takes council with. Who knows when next you will find a village or hamlet that will offer such things?” He folds his arms over his chest. “If you are to leave on a journey, I would see that you are well equipped.”

Boromir laughs then, ruffling Faramir’s hair until it seems wind-tousled and wild, and chuckles at his resultant grumble. Lets Faramir duck just out of reach, before reeling him back in for a hug, just as they had when they were younger and made a game of such things.

They fall to packing the remainder of Boromir’s supplies in an easy and companionable silence after that, communicating mostly with knowing nods and simple touches.

“I think,” Boromir says faintly, when at last they have gathered and bundled away his supplies, “that I have everything I shall need for the journey.” He is sorry that even this brief interlude must come to an end, but a council called by the Lord of Rivendell will scarcely wait for one man.

Wordless, Faramir steps forward, casting Boromir’s fur-lined cloak over his shoulders to complete the attire he will wear on his journey. Threads the ties of Boromir’s cloak together. This was something they had often done for each other when they could, helping with each other’s raiment for battle; Boromir had grown used to winding Faramir’s thick leather tunic over his undershirts, and buckling vambraces over his brother’s forearms. In turn, Faramir would help him with the clasps of his cuirass. Cinch his sword scabbard to his belt, signifying the completion of the arming process with a fond pat to his backside.

This time, however, there is little in the way of armour, and Boromir had garbed himself in both tunic and surcoat before Faramir’s arrival, so Faramir now draws the cloak more securely across Boromir’s shoulders. Threads the ties into a neat bow with clever fingers, as if it is the finishing touch to a piece of art. The last stroke in a master painting.

“There you are,” Faramir smiles, leaning back to admire his handiwork. “The very picture of a warrior.”

“Like the ones in the stories of old?” Boromir asks, hopeful. “Valiant and true of heart?”

Faramir’s fingers linger over the clasps of Boromir’s cloak, and he traces with his thumbs the feathered pattern, engraved to resemble the unfurled wings of a seabird. “Very nearly,” he says. “There is but one thing you need now.” 

And before Boromir can refuse, or even see Faramir’s intent, Faramir strips the vambraces from his forearms and fastens them to Boromir’s.

“Faramir, _no_ —you need these more dearly than I,” Boromir protests, reaching to undo the buckles that Faramir closes slowly and reverently over his arms. His brother would be the one to engage the enemy on a regular basis, ambushing the Haradrim out in Ithilien or maintaining Minas Tirith’s safety in Boromir’s absence.

Faramir closes his hands tight over Boromir’s forearms, forcing him to keep the vambraces on. Presses thumbs into the edges of the hand-tooled feather pattern, as he traces the beautiful intricacies of the White Tree carved into leather. “Think of them as a favor of sorts,” he smiles. “Is it not customary to give one’s paramour a favor, to wear when riding into battle?”

“And you think that is what I ride to?” Boromir teases. “Battle?” He skims Faramir’s cheek with a peck of a kiss, moved by how practical Faramir is; his brother graces him with neither the heavy jewels nor brightly colored scarves that might invite bandits or enemies, but keepsakes meant to protect, to _defend_.

A ghost of a frown passes over Faramir’s face, fleeting, before Faramir manages another smile, albeit one small and worried. There is something sad in his smile, Boromir _knows_ it, but who or what has Faramir so uneasy is the one confidence his brother will not allow him. 

“Keep these safe,” Faramir says simply, of the last gift he has bestowed, in the way Boromir knows he means _Keep yourself safe_. “You shall bring them back to me upon your return.”

“Yes, dear,” nods Boromir dutifully, humoring him. 

“Along with stories of your travels and the sights you have seen,” Faramir adds, a hint of wistfulness in his voice.

Boromir is reminded of Faramir as a child, when Faramir would press books and age-old scrolls into his hands and demand for Boromir to read them to him. Would snuggle into Boromir’s arms, his presence taking up as much space in Boromir’s heart as in his lap, while Boromir gathered a cozy nest of sheets around them and read aloud tales of far-flung places and people. Pointed out the ink-drawn illustrations along the way, watching as his brother trailed small fingers along each image, with wonder in his eyes and longing in his heart.

This journey to Rivendell is no easy task, but he knows of how much Faramir has yearned to see the legendary land of the Elves for himself, how sore a blow it is that he may not. Yes, he _would_ tell Faramir of all he saw—perhaps even attempt a poor sketch or two, such as his artistry allowed.

“Shall I bring back fine wines and rare confectionaries as well?” Boromir teases, laughing as the flush on Faramir’s face deepens, into a lovely, wine-red hue of his own. “Yes, Faramir, I shall be your eyes and your ears in all the lands I pass through, and bring back stories enough to keep you amused for nights on end. At least,” Boromir adds softly, “until we may journey together again.”

“Until then,” nods Faramir, solemn.

With that, Boromir slings his shield over his back, and heaves a set of packs over his shoulders. Faramir follows suit, carrying the other set of supplies, and together, they make their way out to the stables. 

From there, Faramir sees him out to the Great Gate, following Boromir on his own chestnut mare. As they approach the enormous doors, however, steel and iron-wrought, Faramir dismounts, which prompts Boromir to do the same. Calls Boromir to him and corrals him into a corner of the pathway outside the great doors, just beyond sight and earshot of the Gate’s guards.

“Boromir,” he says, hushed. “There is still time to reconsider. To find a task that needs doing, lands that need patrolling. To play for time, at least until I may come with you.” Even as he says this, his expression speaks volumes about how doomed he knows his plea is; both he and Boromir know that Minas Tirith can ill afford to send both its captains in this venture to Rivendell, despite their having debated the wisdom of this solution many times over.

Still, Boromir knows the feeling, knows that in Faramir’s clutch for straws, he is casting out what threads of hope he can, while there is still time to do so. While they still have a _choice_. 

The way Faramir has grasped Boromir’s hands in his, with no thought as to what this might look like, speaks to his desperation; any one of the guards could peer around the edge of the door, and find them with their hands wound around each other’s, distraught and loath to let go.

“You know our father, Faramir,” Boromir says, gentle. “You know his mind and his reasoning. And you must stay here and lead our forces against the enemy.”

“I cannot let you—Boromir, I have _seen_ your—” Faramir starts, before pressing his lips into a thin line, immediate. His hands tighten around Boromir’s, worried. 

Surely Faramir cannot have meant to say _I have seen your death_. If Boromir were to meet his end, it would be in defense of Gondor, of his home, fighting until his last breath. 

Boromir looks to the east, finding that the shadow of Mordor looms ever larger and nearer to Gondor, a creeping menace waiting for its chance to strike. The sooner he can verify the rumor of Isildur’s Bane and perhaps bring it home to Gondor, the better, if only to assuage the fear in Faramir’s heart.

“I shall be back soon enough,” he reassures, slipping a palm beneath Faramir’s tunic to rub soft, calming circles into the small of his back. Circles Faramir’s waist with his other arm, snug.

Even so, Faramir looks so forlorn that Boromir dares a kiss, quick and quiet and restrained. Throws all caution to the wind in an instant when Faramir makes a soft, hurt sound and presses into him, by nuzzling into Faramir’s neck for warmth, burying his nose into Faramir’s hair, the color and fragrance of spun sugar. How he wishes he could bottle the scent of Faramir, that he might keep it with him, always! To keep this moment engraved in his memory, through every sense available to him. He would remember the taste of Faramir’s lips, soft and cherry-sweet beneath his, the storm-blue of his eyes, the lovely pitch of his moan, and—

The groan of the massive doors threatening to close behind them prompts them to part, and they do so, Boromir’s hands lingering on Faramir’s before he breaks their bond, and even then, slowly, like they want nothing more than to curl around Faramir’s warmth once more. He approaches his horse just inside the gate, a gelding the rich shade of umber, and mounts it with as much nonchalance as he can muster. As if he and his brother have not just exchanged kisses, as sinful as they were sweet, just moments before.

_Wait for me, Faramir_ , Boromir wants to say. _Look for my coming from the White Tower, when I return from Rivendell_. But there are too many eyes and ears about now, and Boromir swallows hard as he looks into Faramir’s upturned face, his brother’s expression a mixture of hope and worry and love. “Remember today, little brother,” he manages, his hands tightening on the reins. 

Faramir only nods, as if he does not trust his voice in this moment, does not dare the hoarseness that will give away his heartbreak.

There are no sweeping declarations of love then, or promises made in desperation; they have _said_ the things that need saying, Boromir thinks, and he nudges his horse into a trot through the Great Gate without further fanfare.

Later, though, he thinks of all he _could_ have said: _Have a care for your own life, as much as you worry for mine_. Or _I shall write when I can._

Perhaps even _The cooks leave the kitchens unattended between lunch and supper, but remember the door latches from the outside when you must sneak down for supplies_.

It is too late now to hide lover’s words in a brother’s farewell, however, for Faramir and the home Boromir has known is long behind him. Only the last touch of his brother’s lips to his will sustain him now for the journey to come.

As he nears the borders of Gondor, distinguished by a single, battered white banner with the image of the White Tree, Boromir realizes that this indeed, will be the farthest from Faramir he has ever travelled, and the thought of that makes him want nothing more than to turn around. To ride back to Minas Tirith at breakneck speed and find his brother, to kiss him senseless and vow that he will not leave Faramir’s side again. 

But he has promised to make this journey, and he shall see this through, as much as Faramir remains at the forefront of his mind. 

With luck, he will find Rivendell quickly, solve the mystery of his and Faramir’s vision, and perhaps even bring back the ring that Gondor so dearly needs before the snows set in.

_Yes_ , Boromir vows, hitching his reins in a fist and spurring his horse onward past the border. He _would_ come home to Faramir as he had promised. 

He _would_ return to fight by his brother’s side once more.

~

“Boromir.”

The voice, rough and low, and so unlike either Faramir or Finduilas, is accompanied by a hand shaking him awake. “ _Boromir_ ,” the voice says again, insistent, “you must wake. We are nearing the village we must find before nightfall.”

It is the work of a moment more before Boromir realizes this is no dream at all, heralded mostly by the pain searing through his body. He blinks dazedly in the early light of day, groaning as all his hurts and aches make themselves known. 

“Aragorn!” Boromir exclaims, when finally he registers the voice of the man before him. Tries to sit up, his hands clawed into the side of the boat, before sinking back down with a groan more miserable than the last.

Aragorn laughs as he steers their boat, the water whisper-soft against his oar. “I thought you might sleep fitfully due to your injuries, but you slept through the night. I am glad your rest was peaceful, at the least.”

“How did you know it was peaceful?” Boromir asks, trying for a grin. “Did a host of Valar descend to sing as I rested?”

Aragorn snorts before falling silent for a moment, thoughtful. “It was because you smiled in your sleep,” he says finally. After another pause, he asks, “This ‘Faramir’. Is he the brother you have spoken of?”

“Faramir?” Boromir echoes, willing the color not to rise to his face. “Yes.” He must have said his brother’s name in his sleep, to his embarrassment. “The Falls of Rauros—how did we manage to make it past them?” he asks, hoping to steer the conversation away from Faramir. “And what of Legolas and Gimli?”

Aragorn only smiles. “Do not worry for them. They have gone on ahead to find Merry and Pippin. I promised I would see you to the nearest village before catching them up.” 

He says nothing of the Falls, and Boromir is left to make his own assumptions. Perhaps they _had_ managed to portage him and the Elven boat down to the base of the Falls before Aragorn set sail. He supposes it is another of those mysteries that will be revealed in time, much like the mystery of why his comrades came back for him. Fought for his survival, when Boromir was sure he deserved to be left for dead for what he had done.

Just then, there is a violent juddering of the boat, the hull of it grinding against stone and loose rock, with a telltale easing of the waves’ soft lap. Aragorn has brought them ashore.

“We are here,” says Aragorn. “Are you able to walk?”

Boromir tries to heft himself over the side of the boat and nearly topples to the ground. “Yes,” he says, gritting his teeth as he stands. “I shall manage.” He sucks in a breath against the shock of pain from when the motion had tugged at his injuries. His shield he slings along his back, and his sword he ensures is in its scabbard, but he cannot find his horn, however damaged—the heirloom from his father, and his _father’s_ father—

“I am sorry, Boromir,” Aragorn says dolefully, noticing Boromir’s panicked search through his belongings. “The horn of Gondor is lost. When Legolas and I bore you to the ship, it fell into the river and the rushing current dragged it away.”

“No matter,” sighs Boromir. “Better the cloven horn be lost than my life.”

Aragorn nods his agreement, and beckons him forward, careful to keep his footfalls light. It is the natural grace of a Ranger that allows it, Boromir supposes. He attempts the same, but every snap of a branch or twig underfoot makes him feel like a rampaging mûmak. Little wonder that he had never managed to sneak up on Faramir, yet his brother, now Captain of Ithilien’s Rangers, could be counted upon to slip hands over Boromir’s eyes from behind, playful, or around his waist, at the most quiet and opportune of moments.

“Where are we going?” Boromir asks at last, when they have made their way through what feels like leagues of forest.

“There should be a small fishing village inland,” says Aragorn. “One that lies just past the Mouths of Entwash, on the western shore of the Anduin. We are as close to it as we can be from the river; the rest of the way we must travel by foot.” He sighs, soft. “I only hope the village has not been ravaged by the Uruk-hai that frequent these shores.”

“And what is the purpose of our finding this village?” Boromir asks. “Is there help that might avail us there?”

Aragorn gives him an odd smile. “The purpose is to find a place to rest,” he says. “And to regroup.”

“Rest!” Boromir exclaims. “I have no need of it. I can go on for another—” The injury at his chest pulls at his outburst, and pain tears anew through Boromir’s body, nearly doubling him over where he stands. It is only by some unknown grace that he manages not to _wheeze_ like a skewered boar, in front of the man who will be his king.

“No, Boromir,” Aragorn says kindly. He lays his hand upon Boromir’s arm, gentle. Leans in to shoulder Boromir’s weight against his own. “You cannot.”

A soft twitter sounds overhead, and Boromir realizes then that their exchange has startled a bird from its nest, its indigo feathers fluttering as it flies away. 

He also discovers, belated, that their exchange has drawn more than just the attention of the woodland birds, when he looks up and finds an array of spears pointed at his and Aragorn’s throats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 1) The scene of Boromir with baby Faramir bears marked similarities to a drabble I posted some time ago. In its original form, it was meant to be part of a bigger story that was yet unfinished at the time. This is that story.  
> \- 2) Although the movies appear to show Boromir leaving for Rivendell from Osgiliath, I’d like to assume he had at least one night to rest before setting out. :) Hence, the regrouping/ rest back at Minas Tirith.  
> \- 3) [“A Fireside Confession”](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/fireside.png~original) – Art Commissioned by Bunnyxian
> 
> I’m including these commissions on good faith, so please don’t spread them around Tumblr, or Instagram, or any other such social media.I’d really like to share the work of these amazingly talented artists, but if I find them appearing on Tumblr or the likes, I simply won’t post any more of them. Thanks for understanding!
> 
> **OST:**   
>  \- The First Meeting: [Yakusoku (Promise) – Yoshikawa Youichirou](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3gsw2wPFqU)  
> \- A Fireside Confession: [Soubou (Longing) – Yoshikawa Youichirou ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trhyixYGjM8)  
> \- Boromir and Faramir at Osgiliath: [ Sons of the Steward – Howard Shore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=76TOUHD-WiM)


	3. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Boromir recovers, the sundered horn of Gondor is found. But those who discover it find they have greater troubles of their own.

~

“Be still,” Aragorn murmurs. “I shall speak with them.” As Boromir nods a subtle assent, Aragorn turns to the men behind the encirclement of spears. “Friends,” he says, holding up his hands, “we mean you no harm.”

“Oh?” says a voice, and the circle of spears parts to let one man through, tall and broad of build. “Two men, traveling alone, with weapons and armor, making both haste and noise at dusk. Do you not fear those who bear the White Hand of Saruman?” He jabs Aragorn lightly with his spear. “Perhaps you fear neither the dark nor the ones who bear the mark because you are _one of them_.”

Boromir starts forward to let these Men know how patently ridiculous their assumption is, when Aragorn clears his throat, a warning. 

“We set forth from Rivendell,” Aragorn explains. “Two of our friends were taken by the enemy you speak of, and when we set out to find them, one of our party was grievously injured.” He nods in Boromir’s direction. “We seek only a place to rest. And for him to recover.”

Their captor seems to mull over Aragorn’s words, before making a gesture for the others to stand down. Boromir releases a breath he had not known he held, when the spear points lift away. 

“Come,” says the man, finally. “I shall lead you to a place where your friend may rest. But should you try to take arms against us, we will not hesitate to slay you where you stand.”

Both Aragorn and Boromir nod their acquiescence, and together with the small band of armed men, they make their way to what is presumably the village Aragorn speaks of. 

“Your choice of arms,” Boromir says to one of the men, curious, as they walk. He has noted the crudely hammered helmets and armor of most of the men, and this one’s short, broad-bladed sword with a spike at its end is a weapon characteristic of the Uruk-hai. “I find it passing strange that you would take up the armor and weapons of the enemy you so despise.”

Boromir is surprised when the man speaks; he can be hardly more than a boy, his voice thin and uneven. “These are strange times,” the boy says, grim. He gestures to the bow and the quiver of arrows slung across his back. “This is my weapon of choice, but we salvage what we must, to defend our village.”

“Ah,” says Boromir. The boy’s resourceful spirit reminds him so much of Faramir when he was younger, that had he not been of a height with Boromir, he might have smothered the boy’s hair, fond, as he did with his brother. As it is, Boromir only beams at the boy and says, “You remind me of my brother. Strong in spirit, and adept with an unusual range of weapons. The bow has always been his favorite as well.”

“Is that so?” the youth says, quirking a half-smile, one that is barely visible beneath his helm. When the company stops suddenly, he says softly, “We are here. You should find the old healer, Nethrion. May he hasten your recovery, that you may see this brother of yours again.”

At that, something hot and tight knots in Boromir’s throat, and he turns to thank the boy, but he is already gone, marching away with the others in the village’s defense. 

“This way, Boromir,” says Aragorn, urging him toward a hut with a thatched roof. “They may not have progressed to the level of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, but here we will find food and rest and shelter.”

And despite the wary looks of the other people in the village, when the old healer parts his curtain of wooden beads and dried bones and laughs, “ _Thorongil_!” in greeting, Boromir realizes that Aragorn is perhaps known in many more lands and in wider circles than he lets on.

~

After having partaken of a bowl of dried, salted fish crushed into a watery gruel, Boromir lies back on a crudely made pallet. Eyes the ceiling with its horizontal wooden poles, from which a varied collection of bones and feathers hang, before his gaze settles on the glass jars lining the back wall of the shack. Each jar is carefully labeled, some with names even Boromir does not recognize, their contents ranging from the most innocuous of common herbs to organs suspended in murky preserves.

Boromir has become familiar with some of the jars’ contents, having undergone several of the healer’s treatments thus far, including the drinking of a bitter, noxious brew (herbs from an angular blue jar, bottom right), the pressing of foul compresses to his wounds (cloths soaked in amber liquid from a squat, clear jar, top left) and a strange technique of placing heated cups along his wounds, which Nethrion claims will leech the poison of the Uruk-hai’s arrowheads from his blood. 

These are not treatments used in the Houses of Healing back in Minas Tirith, but as skeptical as Boromir is of these techniques, even he cannot deny that his fever has come down considerably, and the searing pain of his injuries has calmed into a dull, aching throb. So he bears them patiently and without complaint—with the exception of a mortified squawk when Nethrion dabs ointments with the odor of rotten eggs against his skin.

Nethrion rests in a corner now, mashing a concoction of gnarly roots and foul-smelling herbs with mortar and pestle to form poultices for Boromir’s injuries. 

“These will work better than the athelas-soaked rags Thorongil might have used originally,” he says, “because these will stay _on_.” He undoes Aragorn’s hastily wrapped dressings from around Boromir’s wounds—used to provide healing and comfort in between Nethrion’s unconventional remedies—and presses a lump resembling grassy mud to each site from which the Uruk-hai’s arrows were excised. Boromir hisses at the heat and sting of each, but otherwise bears the pain in silence, glad that his wounds have been sutured now, to minimize damage from movement.

Aragorn chuckles from the other corner, his pipe in hand as he enjoys a new batch of pipeweed; evidently, the healer has more than just unguents and healing herbs in his vast repository. “You are strong, Boromir,” he says. “You will survive Nethrion’s treatment. When last I passed through here, with a festering Orc-wound, it was he who set me to rights and sent me on my way.” He glances outside, and with one last, leisurely inhale of his pipe, Aragorn stands, gathering his sword and other supplies. “I shall take my leave of you both now.”

Boromir nods in understanding. “You have tarried here long enough, and must catch up to Legolas and Gimli.” Aragorn must leave before the last of the sun’s light fades, as Boromir well knows. He sighs, deflating a little against the wall, earning him a hiss of _Stay still!_ from Nethrion. “I only wish that I could accompany you, in the search for our friends.” 

“There is no dishonor in resting, Boromir,” chides Aragorn. “Nor in living to fight another day.” He rests a hand on Boromir’s shoulder, then. “I have sent an armed and able messenger ahead to Minas Tirith, with a missive for your brother to come for you. You said his name was Faramir, did you not? The same Faramir that leads the Rangers of Ithilien?”

Boromir nods tightly, unsure of how much he had disclosed of his brother while in his fevered, dream-like state. 

“Then there is no need for worry. Rest, my friend,” says Aragorn gently. “Your brother will come for you.”

That night, as Boromir shifts carefully onto the straw pallet to sleep, he lets himself remember Faramir’s eyes, their hue the blue of the Anduin in spring. The gentleness of his hands, his fingertips feathered and light when he carded them through Boromir’s hair. The pleasant rasp of his beard against Boromir’s jaw when they kissed, high in the sheltered areas of the White Tower and away from prying eyes, again and again, each press of lips like promises and secrets shared between them. 

Boromir lets himself revel in these memories, each of small intimacies he thought he might never have again.

 _I will rest_ , he decides, determined. _I will recover. And I_ will _see Faramir again._

~

The deep, resonant tones of Boromir’s horn had sounded late afternoon, piercing through the veil of the forests where Faramir and his Rangers had been mired, mid-battle with the Haradrim.

Faramir had ached to throw down his arms upon hearing the horn. To rush to Boromir’s side and give him the aid he was sure his brother sorely needed. As it was, he had been caught in his own skirmish after an ambush gone awry—one of the trenches dug to snare the Haradrim’s towering, tusked mûmakil had not been deep enough; they had underestimated the number of the enemy passing through; several of their traps had not sprung—and the Rangers had descended upon the enemy, only to find that instead of being scattered by chaos and confusion, the enemy was ready and _waiting_. All Faramir could do was fight for his own life, hoping against hope that the voice of Boromir’s horn would not go unheeded.

Could only hope his brother had stalwart companions of his own that would come at his call.

The Rangers regroup at Henneth Annûn after, to count their losses and better prepare themselves for the next battle, but as night draws near, Faramir finds himself wandering toward the banks of the Anduin. Takes a seat along sand and silt to watch the moon’s light reflect upon the water, just as he reflects upon the day’s events. He wonders how they will make up for the loss of Rangers in today’s fight, the losses few but dear. How best to adjust their tactics, in case their best-laid plans fail, as they had today. 

Before long, however, his thoughts turn to Boromir, spurred by the knot of worry and fear that has taken hold in his chest since hearing the horn’s cry; he wonders at the circumstances behind Boromir’s call for help. If his brother is well now, and safe. Or if he had been alone, calling for aid that would not come, or worse, could not come in _time_.

The sound of something rattling against the riverbank, a muted melody not unlike the chime of hollowed bones struck together, catches Faramir’s attention. He rises to inspect the source of the sound, but upon nearing it, stops in his tracks, breath catching hard in his throat—until Faramir forgets how to breathe altogether.

There, tangled in the wild weeds of the riverbank and cloven in two, is Boromir’s horn.

 _No_ , thinks Faramir, as the two slivers float along the water, striking each other now and then with the ebb and flow of the river. _No, no, no—it cannot be_.

And though he wishes for nothing more than to plunge into the river, to seize Boromir’s horn and cradle it in his arms, Faramir wades into the bone-chilling water, slow. Remains careful not to disturb the weeds, lest the current carry the horn away again, bearing it to shores where Faramir cannot follow.

With patient, skillful fingers, Faramir sifts through the reeds to untangle the horn. Gathers the sundered horn into his arms and cradles it, gentle, as he makes his way ashore; he needs hardly glance at its silver tip, its finely etched rim, to know this relic is indeed the heirloom of the house of the Stewards of Gondor. Had seen Boromir wear it proudly at his hip for long years. 

A smear of blood, days old and dull, runs the length of the horn, and Faramir traces it with a thumb, gleaning what vestiges of Boromir’s life from it he can. Stares at the horn, numb. He had all but told Boromir of his dream, hoping to dissuade him from his journey, or at the least wait until they could set out for Rivendell together. But time had been of the essence, and Boromir had to leave, regardless, and all Faramir could do was hope for his safe return. Trust that his dream, of Boromir cold and pale and lifeless within an Elven boat would not come to be. That it had merely been a test of his faith, or if Boromir were to know of it, of _his_ , if in fact the Valar were fond of such trials.

Now, however, faced with the horn of Gondor bloodstained and broken, Faramir knows in his heart his brother has fallen. 

_There is no body_ , Faramir thinks, a seedling of hope pushing through his grief. _I did not see my brother, dead_. And there have been no reports of a strange Elven boat passing through Gondor or gracing their shores.

But Boromir would not have given up his horn, even on pain of death, and Faramir knows better than to hold onto false hope in times such as these.

He does not allow himself to fall to his knees by the banks of the Anduin, with its unforgiving surface of stones and sand and silt. Does not grieve with a wailing lament, here, or in front of his men, even if they all know what the sundered horn means. Even if they surround him as he winds his way, unseeing, through the caverns of their hideout, all of them clasping his shoulder or patting his back in silent consolation. 

But later, in the solitude of his own sleeping quarters, a natural alcove hewn from the rock face itself, Faramir presses the two pieces of the horn, all that he has left of Boromir, to his chest, the heart beating within sundered like Boromir’s horn. Weeps softly, his tears soaking the sleeve of his tunic. 

_Worthless_ , Faramir decides of his sorrow, his tears. Tears would not bring his brother back, or he would gladly fill the Anduin with sacrifice enough to bring his brother back to life. 

At that thought, Faramir clutches the remnants of Boromir’s horn tighter to his chest, as if it can heal the raw, painful ache that resides there. He knows he must give the pieces of the horn to his father in time, to relay the news of Boromir’s passing. But for now, he keeps the pieces for himself. Would keep them forever, if he could. 

Would have kept _Boromir_ , by his side, if he could.

 _I need you_ , thinks Faramir, desperate. _Your guidance. Your counsel. But most of all, the warmth of your laughter. The heat of your fevered touch. The sight of your mouth, kiss-swollen and red, and your hair, tangled, after we have loved one another, that makes me want to run my fingers through it time and time again_.

Faramir swallows hard, around the knot of anguish in his throat. _You_ promised, _Boromir_ , he remembers, bitter. _You promised you would return_.

But all the promises in the world mean nothing, if the Valar do not allow it.

He lets himself sob quietly, clasping the horn to his chest. And if his men hear him, they say nothing of it after, because tonight, the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers is only a man, grieving a brother, a _loss_ , and that is a feeling they know all too well.

~

“Captain Faramir.”

Faramir looks up from the map that he and Madril, his second-in-command, have been poring over in private conference. Their scouts have reported ill news, of Saruman leading troops from Isengard against Rohan, and Sauron marshalling his own in Mordor, and it is only a matter of time before both armies turn against Gondor. “What is it, Damrod?”

Damrod inclines his head in the direction of the main cavern. “The Halflings we captured have been brought blindfolded to the hideout, as you requested. Mablung and I can interrogate them, if you wish.” 

“I will speak to them,” Faramir says, but he nods at Damrod, grateful. He leaves Madril to contemplate how best to counter Saruman and Sauron’s troops for now, and makes his way to the mouth of the caves. 

As he winds his way through the tunnels, Faramir muses on how the appearance of the Halflings has been a breath of fresh air, a break from the monotony of his days. His time until now has been divided between ambushing the Haradrim, their numbers continually marching from the east, and dispatching rangers to defend Osgiliath, though it seems of late that all of these tasks blend together. As if Faramir does each from a great distance, far removed from the men he commands, his orders and actions performed through a dense, grey fog. 

His world had lost all color, all of it fading into a meaningless grey since the finding of Boromir’s horn. And while he had wondered what killed Boromir in the end, knowing his brother would not have been felled so easily, had wondered if Boromir’s murderer was in the next Orc, the next Harad he cut down, he felt no pleasure in the killings; like all else, they were simply performed through the haze of grey, his movements by rote and his reflexes instinctual. Often slow-seeming, as if Faramir was trying to wade through mud, or move underwater.

But the appearance of two Halflings, found skulking in the grass during one of the Rangers’ ambushes short days ago, had shaken color into his being, painting swift, broad strokes of it over the drab landscape of his life. The novelty was in their rarity: Faramir had only ever read and heard of Halflings from Mithrandir, living in their idyllic, green lands, their lives fraught only with the perils of poor harvests and improper grading of pipeweed.

 _What business do two Halflings have in Ithilien, so far from the Shire?_ Faramir had wondered aloud, at the sight of the child-like beings his men had captured.

 _We are bound to an errand of secrecy_ , the pale, waif-like one had said. _Those that claim to oppose the enemy would do well not to hinder us_.

 _The enemy?_ Faramir remembered his bitter words to them, then, as he turned over the dead Harad before them: _His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. You wonder what his name is, where he came from, and if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home, and if he would not rather have stayed there…in peace_. 

How many, like his brother, had been driven by lies and twisted threats to ride so far from home? How many had died as Boromir had, alone but for the company of fellow soldiers, perhaps not even that?

 _My place is here with my people_ , Boromir had said, his gaze meeting Faramir’s as he turned from their father, all those months ago. _Not in Rivendell_. Yet to Rivendell he had gone, to bend to their father’s whim, to keep Faramir safe, and all that remained of him was his blood-streaked horn, sundered, like Faramir’s heart.

 _War will make corpses of us all_ , Faramir had decided.

He takes a seat before the Halflings now, noting their bound hands. If he deems them to be harmless from his interrogation, he will consider having those bonds removed. As it is, the Halflings appear exhausted and afraid, but resolutely defiant, as if some hidden purpose drives them, giving them strength.

“My men tell me that you are Orc spies,” Faramir says without preamble.

“Spies?” shouts the heavyset one, incredulous. “Now wait just a _minute_ —”

“We are Hobbits from the Shire,” says the Halfling with the mess of brown curls, quickly. “Frodo Baggins is my name, and this is Samwise Gamgee.” He nods toward his fellow traveller.

Faramir regards them solemnly, silent. He will not be the first to give anything away.

“We set out from Rivendell with seven companions,” Frodo volunteers, filling the silence as Faramir hoped he would. “One we lost in Moria, two were my kin…”

 _Rivendell!_ Faramir’s heart leaps in his chest. _Then Boromir might have been in their company! It was to Rivendell he travelled, seeking our dream’s meaning and the weapon of the enemy, by attending Lord Elrond’s council_.

“…and two men,” Frodo continues. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir, of Gondor.”

Faramir fights to hide the sting of tears at his eyes at the mere mention of his brother. Breathes in, deep, to regain his composure. _Not only has Boromir been in their company, he traveled with these Halflings, for a time!_ “You were a friend of Boromir?” he asks coolly, despite his heart beating double time in his chest.

Frodo blinks, as if unsettled by the question. “Yes,” he says finally, “for my part. Though I have not seen him since our parting at Amon Hen.”

“It would grieve you then,” Faramir says, “to learn that he is dead.” He forces the words out, harsh, to gauge their reactions. The Halflings appear properly shocked, Frodo especially.

“Dead!” Frodo exclaims. “How? When?”

“As one of his companions, I had hoped you would tell _me_ ,” says Faramir. He decides not to speak of the cloven horn, keeping it to himself for now—just as he hoards the pieces for his own, instead of giving them to his father. “The river Anduin saw fit to send me a symbol of his passing,” he offers instead. “But more than this, I know it in my heart.” Faramir swallows, tight, against the knot forming in his throat. “He was my brother.” 

He sees something like sympathy flicker through the Halflings’ eyes at the way his voice breaks on _brother_ , and berates himself for this weakness he has shown, in unproven company.

Despite his compassion, Frodo seems genuine in not knowing anything. Samwise, however, or ‘Sam’, as Frodo has called him, casts his eyes upon the cave floor. There is guilt implicit in his gaze for all of a moment, before he straightens his back. Stares defiantly at Faramir, unwilling to share what it is he knows.

With a sigh, Faramir rises to his feet and turns from them; he will find out what he needs to know from the Halflings in time. There are more pressing matters at hand in the meantime, and much to do, like the formulation of plans on how best to fight Sauron’s ever-increasing army, and the distribution of their already diminished Rangers throughout Gondor.

“Well? Did you learn anything from the Halflings?” Madril asks, when Faramir returns to the cavern designated as the council room.

“Besides the fact that they are _not_ Orc spies?” Faramir snorts, shaking his head. “Nothing of note. Though there is _one_ thing…they said they set out from Rivendell. That they travelled with Boromir for a time, before their parting at Amon Hen.” Faramir pauses, thoughtful. “Do you think…” 

_Do you think I might have made it to his side?_

They had been in northern Ithilien the day Boromir’s horn sounded, when the ambush against the Haradrim had taken a turn for the worse. And though Faramir knows it would have been impossible to hasten to Boromir’s aid that day, he still feels at fault. Boromir must have been so _close_ to home; if only Faramir had ventured farther north with his Rangers, if only they had covered more ground, Faramir might have saved him, and his brother would still live—

“Faramir,” Madril says, quiet. He opens his mouth, as if to offer words of comfort, but knowing Faramir does not want pity, shuts it again. Keeps the words that Faramir knows his men have ached to say to him, to himself. _Let him go, Faramir_ , Madril seems to say, regardless, with the downward cast of his eyes, the tug of a frown at his mouth.

Faramir recognizes that look; he has said such words to his men enough times, knowing they meant little in the face of overwhelming grief. 

In the end, Madril claps an awkward hand to Faramir’s back instead, and unrolls a piece of parchment, dark with routes plotted in ink for the movement of troops and armaments. “I have devised a new strategy of attack,” he says. “One I hoped you would look over before we enact it. It should help us if in fact the fight comes to us on both fronts—from Isengard and Mordor.” 

Faramir sighs, glad for this temporary reprieve from his grief. Besides, needs must, for Sauron’s army will not stop its advance for the sake of his loss.

Later, when his men have a small, subdued celebration of sorts—they have taken out another Haradrim band and not one, but _two_ of their colossal mûmakil this time—Faramir joins in, but takes no pleasure from the weak, malted drink. Takes only the barest hint of it in the company of his men. The entire affair serves only to emphasize how his hope of a sharing a celebratory drink with Boromir ever again is gone now, and after the mandatory first toasts, Faramir chooses instead to retire to his chambers. Sits with the cloven horn, as he does most nights now, and presses the two halves together, turning it over in his hands, again and again. 

_I should have gone in your place_ , Faramir thinks. _Or gone with you. I might have saved you, had I been by your side_. He presses a thumb, pensive, to the streak of blood along the horn’s length. _What happened, out there in the wild lands? How did you fall, in the end, that none could come to your aid in time?_

But the horn tells no tales, besides the one Faramir already knows. Provides not the warmth of Boromir’s kiss or the heat of his touch. And before long, the pieces fall apart again, reminding him, not for the first time, how very _alone_ Faramir is. Of how Boromir has been cleaved from his side, much like this horn.

At this, he curls beneath his thin, worn blanket and weeps, softly, missing Boromir so much the wound in his heart physically _aches_. Remembers how, when last he had wept like this, it had been when their mother passed. Boromir had held him then, folding his arms around Faramir, his warmth a comfort and barricade against all the hurt and pain.

 _Who will hold me now, Boromir?_ Faramir thinks, his fingers twining tight through the horn’s corded rope. _Now that you are gone?_

And not for the first time, Faramir passes the night with the horn cradled to his chest, holding it and holding on, the way he will never hold Boromir again.

~

Faramir has grown used to the roar of the waterfall that obscures Henneth Annûn’s entrance, and the drip of the caves deeper in, but never before has either been drowned out by the sound of constant _chatter_.

“Your opinion of this strategic new route through Ithilien?” Damrod wants to know, a map in his hands as he follows Faramir to and from the council room. 

“What do you think of this mixture?” Mablung asks after, barging into Faramir’s sleeping quarters with a mad grin. He shows Faramir a sour-smelling, black powder he has concocted, meant to scatter the enemy through its explosive power, and gives the flask an absent-minded shake, despite Faramir’s look of horror that he should not do that _here_. “This should augment our bows nicely.”

When even Anborn appears, with inane questions about arrow fletching while Faramir is relieving himself, Faramir begins to suspect his Rangers are conspiring. As if they are taking turns to watch him, afraid of him doing something drastic in his grief. Only then does it occur to him that he has been less than successful in hiding his sorrow; perhaps the deep echoes of the caverns at night or a particularly heartrending sob had given him away. 

He bears Anborn’s questions and Mablung’s attempts to draw him into conversation with a patience he had not known he possessed, however, and finds that their constant company is actually a comfort, trying as it is.

“Mablung,” Faramir tries later, when he is replenishing the candles on their worktables and Mablung hurries over to help light them, both tasks easily done by one. He clears his throat. “About this endeavour of yours and the others, which—” Faramir eyes Madril over by the crude explosives, subtly straining to listen in on their conversation while examining a map at the same time, “—I am sure Madril has initiated. I appreciate your concern, but it is no longer necessary.”

“What endeavour?” Mablung asks, his eyes wide, the very picture of innocence.

“This business of you and the others following me about. There is no need for it; I have no plans as of yet to join my brother.” _Though the thought has crossed my mind, many a night_. Faramir conjures what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but his expression must seem stilted and strange, because instead of being relieved, Mablung looks even more worried. Casts his eyes about in a panic for Madril, ringleader of this brood of mother hens, as if to say _Our ploy has been discovered, what now?_

“Captain Faramir!” Anborn calls, hurrying over from behind a corner. 

Faramir silently thanks Anborn for saving him from a conversation that was likely to be more than awkward. “What is it? Have you found something?”

“We have,” Anborn says. “The creature the Halflings were traveling with was sighted mere moments ago in the Forbidden Pool.” He furrows a brow. “I found it bashing a fish against a rock and sorting through its entrails, its execution of the fish set to song.” There is another pause, before Anborn stifles a grin. “Shall I sing it for you? The creature seems especially fond of the words ‘juicy’ and ‘sweet’.”

“That will not be necessary,” says Faramir, holding up a hand to forestall an attempt at the song, though he appreciates Anborn’s efforts at making him smile. 

Together with the others, Faramir rounds up the Halflings they have kept captive for now, rousing them from their sleep to draw the creature out from the pool. 

It seems docile enough at first, but by the time they have captured it, it struggles and screams from within its bonds, flailing as if possessed by all the cursed spirits of the earth. Faramir feels a measure of sympathy for it, but his instinct tells him that this being is the key to what Frodo and Sam are doing in these lands.

“Where are you leading them?” Faramir asks of it, when they have freed it and cornered it in one of the smaller caverns. 

The creature, lean of limb and sparse of hair, with skin a mottled grey, is a pitiable thing, curling in on itself and whimpering. Bemoaning its fate. It answers no questions, however, and Faramir presses closer to listen to its ramblings, catching among its growls of _Master tricksed us_ and answering whimpers of _Master is our friend!_ the words _Filthy little hobbitses, they stole it from us_.

“What did they steal?” Faramir encourages, gentle. “What is it they took from you?”

“My… _precioussss_!” it snaps, baring rotted teeth, a look of pure hatred in its bloodshot eyes as it imbues its answer with all the venom it can muster.

 _Precious_. The word brings to mind the memory of Mithrandir, Faramir’s old tutor, from when he had come searching for something within the archives of Minas Tirith. It had taken him long years, even with Faramir’s occasional help, to find what he was looking for: a scroll, written by Isildur, the last known owner of the Ring of Power, documenting its finding. Mithrandir had been troubled by the scroll’s contents, that much was evident.

“It is precious to me,” Mithrandir had read aloud, his eyebrows rising as he echoed Isildur’s words from an age past, “though I buy it with great pain.” He had turned to Faramir then, alarmed. _It is as I thought_ , Mithrandir said. _The One Ring has been called_ precious _before_. _By those who have wielded it, or have been influenced by its power._

The wizard had not tarried long after that, gathering his belongings in a rush and saying he was due to visit an old friend, but not before Faramir had worked out what troubled Mithrandir so, what urgency hastened his flight from Minas Tirith: the ring must have been found, or was hidden somewhere in safekeeping, but could remain veiled no longer.

 _The ring_ , Faramir thinks now, his world upended completely at the revelation. _Isildur’s Bane. The very thing that our father bade Boromir bring home_. There is a roaring in his ears, like the crash of waves upon a shore, and the beat of his heart is deep, foreboding, the ominous percussion of a war-drum, drowning out the sound of all else.

Before he knows it, he has found the Halflings where they sit waiting, and their eyes widen, fearful, from the sword he has drawn from its scabbard.

“So _this_ is the answer to all the riddles,” Faramir muses, advancing deliberately toward Frodo. He lifts the ring from where it sits beneath Frodo’s shirt with the point of his sword. Watches, mesmerised, as the glint of gold catches against cold steel. _This is what Boromir died trying to bring home_.

 _This_ , Faramir thinks, amid the strangely tempting whispers that seem to emanate from the ring itself, _is what took my brother from me_.

He can see Frodo cringing away from him, hear Sam’s distant pleas, saying that their quest is to destroy the ring—which is the logical action to take, because it is this thing his brother had set out to search for, this thing that had led to his death—but something darker calls to Faramir now, louder, something that drowns out even his deepest desire, which is to know what happened to Boromir in his last moments, because it kills him to _not know_.

 _Anything you wish shall be yours_ , the ring seems to whisper, its tone soft, sibilant. _Recognition from your father. Your people. You shall be the pride of Minas Tirith itself—nay, of_ Gondor. _You need only stretch out your hand and wield me. Name your desire, Faramir, Captain of Gondor, and your wish will be my command_.

 _Give my brother back to me, then_ , Faramir snaps at it in return, in the same peculiar thought-speech. The ring silences at once, mercifully, its dark voice receding from his mind. An overwhelming sense of relief washes over Faramir, that he has beaten this entity’s dangerous call, that he has remembered what is most important in his life, when Damrod startles him from his daze.

“Captain Faramir,” says Damrod, his hand closing tight, urgent, over Faramir’s shoulder. “Osgiliath is under attack. “They look to us for reinforcements.”

“Prepare to leave,” Faramir commands, eyeing the Halflings, thoughtful, as Damrod hurries away to gather their men.

Battle is upon them again, too soon after the last, and from that, the decision is made for them; Faramir knows they have not men enough stationed in Osgiliath to repel the attack, and hardly Rangers enough to spare as reinforcements—not with the recent defeats and the enemy’s ever-increasing army. _Osgiliath is under attack, and this time, I will not have my brother by my side_.

“The ring will go to Gondor,” Faramir declares, with a heavy sigh. Osgiliath has dire need of its power now. Besides, Boromir had died trying to bring this weapon home, and it is up to Faramir to see it through.

Seeing the look of anguish in Sam’s eyes, however, Faramir cannot help the niggling feeling that he has played right into the ring’s plans. That the ring has twisted his sentiment to its own will. But the rest of the Rangers have begun to gather at his command, and by then it is too late to do anything besides start the long, arduous trek to Osgiliath.

~

“Look!” Damrod shouts, as their company nears the once-capital of Gondor. He points to the plumes of thick, dark smoke billowing from Osgiliath’s highest towers. “Osgiliath burns!”

His eyes are sick with dread when he turns to the others. Faramir can see that even Mablung and Anborn, the most steadfast and optimistic of his Rangers, shiver in the evening chill, made all the colder by the grey and overcast sky.

“Mordor has come,” says Madril grimly, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He looks toward Faramir, as if awaiting instruction. 

_Is the ring truly our last hope?_ Faramir wonders, at the sight of the once-proud city, being reduced now to rubble and ash before their eyes. _Is there truly no other recourse than to put our faith into what seems a mere bauble, its allegiance yet unproven?_

As if he has heard Faramir’s doubts, Frodo turns to Faramir. “The ring will not save Gondor,” he says. “It has only the power to destroy.”

Some part of Faramir knows Frodo speaks reason, that his words ring true, from all that Faramir has observed: the wretched thing the creature who had carried for it long years had become, the strange, untimely demises of those who had wielded it. 

The brother it had torn from him.

Again, however, the oddly errant thought comes to him, making his decision for him: _Boromir died to bring home this ring. I must finish what he started_. “Hurry!” Faramir commands. He sprints ahead, motioning for the other Rangers to follow, deaf to Frodo’s cries and pleas to free him.

By the time Faramir and his company of Rangers arrive at Osgiliath, the city appears worse than the state they left it in: debris of crumbled walls and parapets litter the major thoroughfares of the city, and the dead—too many of them soldiers of Gondor, in their broken and battered silver armour—are scattered like leaves among the ruins. 

“Captain Faramir!” the remaining troops cry, rallying around the Rangers, as if they are a welcome sight, a symbol of hope in such dark times. Perhaps the _only_ beacon of hope.

 _No. Not the only_ , Faramir thinks grimly. They have the ring now, despite how they came by it. “We will take the Halflings and the item they carry to my father afterwards,” he announces to his men. “It is the weapon that will change our fortunes in this war.” 

He almost wishes they were before his father now, that he might say _Faramir sends a mighty gift_. To fill the words with a spite he had not even known he possessed, and hurl Denethor’s words to Boromir, _Bring me back this mighty gift_ , in his face. To show him what was left of Boromir’s horn, that he might see his folly—that he had bartered one of his own blood for this bauble. 

Some darker part of Faramir whispers though, that this glory, for bringing the ring to Minas Tirith, will be his, but he attributes that to the natural pull of the ring. Strangely enough, its voice is dimmer now, hesitant and unsure, and Faramir finds it easier to fight its pull, though it unsettles him that he knows not why that is. Perhaps the ring has found another, of higher rank or darker spirit to lure to its aid.

A sorrowful cry rises, not far from where they stand—the despairing sound of Gondor’s soldiers once again engaged in battle, sending a frisson of fear along Faramir’s spine.

“For now, we have need of the ring’s strength _here_ ,” Faramir amends quickly. He motions Madril toward the Halflings with a curt nod. “Do what you must to make them draw forth the ring’s power,” he says, resigned, and starts forward to lead the other Rangers into the fray. 

Madril furrows his brow, as if dismayed at the thought of threatening beings no taller than children. “Faramir,” Madril says, hesitant. “Perhaps there is another way we might—”

“You want to know what happened to Boromir?” Sam shouts, sudden, struggling against his captors. His outburst draws Faramir’s attention for once, and Faramir feels a pit of shame settle in his stomach, that only the mention of Boromir makes him turn a more willing ear their way. “That’s what you’ve been after all along, isn’t it? Keepin’ us here, when you could’ve just taken the ring! When you could’ve just killed us!”

Faramir does not correct his misconception—murder is not in his nature, especially not for something such as the One Ring—but there is a grain of truth in Sam’s words. He watches as Frodo tugs weakly at Sam’s sleeve, mouthing _No, Sam_ , as if what he will say next is too cruel. As if he is keeping Sam from saying something he cannot take back.

“You want to know _why_ your brother died?” Sam continues, regardless, twisting out of Frodo’s grip. “He tried to take the ring from Frodo! After swearing an oath to protect him, he tried to _kill_ him!” The revelation sends Faramir reeling, but nothing is as damning as Sam’s final words: “The ring drove your brother _mad_!”

 _No!_ thinks Faramir vehemently. _Not Boromir. Not_ Boromir, _for he is strong. And if he_ had _failed, had succumbed to the lure of the ring, would that I had been there to be his strength. To break its dark enchantment over him_. 

He wonders what lies the ring told Boromir, what dark things it had promised his brother, to snare him so completely. Wonders what Boromir thought of in his last moments. What was in his heart. 

_Did you think of me before the end, brother?_ Faramir thinks, his own heart twisting in his chest. He hopes Boromir remembered the love they shared; that perhaps the thought of Faramir himself, of all they cherished between them, had eased his passing.

The terrifying shriek of the Nazgûl sounds overhead, shaking Faramir from his stupor instantly.

“Wraiths!” wails the creature they keep captive. “Wraiths on wings!” It twists and writhes against its bonds, forgetting to take cover even as the dreadful beat of wings follows swiftly after. As if hoping the Nazgûl’s presence is distraction enough for it to slip away.

Faramir thinks to take up the call of _Nazgûl!_ to warn the others, to—

The Nazgûl attacks, its baleful shriek splitting the air like a war cry as it drives its fell-beast into a nosedive toward the company of Rangers. Makes them scatter like ants among the rubble. Even from behind a broken section of the battlements, Faramir can feel the chill of its presence settle deep into his bones, a cold, pervading fog that seeps through the layers of his tunic, leeching him of all warmth and hope and happiness, such little as he had.

He peers around the corner, before doubling back instantly behind the wall, the fell-beast’s gaping maw only inches away. There will be time to remember Boromir later, he thinks. For now, there is only time to focus on _survival_.

Faramir is searching his surroundings for a better vantage point, a higher section of wall, even a remnant of tower still standing from which to snipe the fell-beast, when he spots Frodo and Sam cowering together in a corner. Hurries over, quickly, quietly, and herds them beneath a safer set of archways, yet unbroken. 

“Stay here,” Faramir commands. When Sam scowls at him in spite of the attempt to help, Faramir sighs; they will have words later, Faramir with the explanation that he had not truly meant them harm, and Sam with—no, Sam had said his piece, and however bitter and cruel the words were, they have given Faramir a sense of closure, even if he has not the time to mull them over right now. “Stay _here_ ,” Faramir says again, in case the stubborn Halflings have the foolish idea of running out among the enemy in a bid to escape. “And keep out of sight!”

With that, he slips away to join his Rangers against the new onslaught of Orcs storming into Osgiliath. 

The Orcs brandish crude, curved blades and axes and maces, each of their blows meant to kill, each Orc in the fray in a wild battle-frenzy, as if bolstered by the Nazgûl’s shrieks. Their guttural war cries—primal and raw, like something from the early darkness of the world—rise to a fever-pitch as they advance upon soldiers and Rangers alike, and Faramir is very nearly tempted to sink to his knees, to press hands against his ears in order to escape the vicious grating, the sound of _The enemy is near, the enemy is_ here.

 _Easy, Faramir. You have this in hand_ , Faramir remembers then. Kind words from Boromir, when Faramir had just started his training at the barracks, and been beaten down by opponents both larger and stronger. Boromir had stood behind him afterward, guiding his hands in the motions of the swordplay Faramir knows so well now. _Watch for their weaknesses, and aim your strikes. Make each one count_.

Faramir stands taller, straighter, at the memory. Watches these Orcs in their mad charge toward him and his company; like their predecessors, the Orcs’ armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arm, and Faramir raises his sword, brings it down, across, in sharp sweeping motions, cleaving heads from necks, and limbs from torsos, as wave after wave of the enemy rushes at them, around them, like a tide swelling violent along a shore. He lunges in for a kill, parrying as he needs. 

Summons his courage, in the face of the terror the Nazgûl’s shrieks strike into his heart and the sheer numbers of the enemy, from the memory of Boromir—the warmth of his hands, the solid strength of his sword swings, the flash of pride in his eyes when at last Faramir had mastered the strokes, honed his battle instincts and triumphed over those who only used brute strength—

Faramir raises his sword nearly too late to block the swing of a mace, spiked and blood-soaked, toward his head. Even as the blow glances off his sword, his arm is numbed by the brutal impact

_numb cold dead_

and only by the quick support his other arm gives does he manage to dismember the hulking Orc before him, lopping off its right arm as it makes to swing its mace again. The weapon somersaults into a cluster of smaller Orcs, with arm still attached. Faramir tears through the Orc’s left arm as it reaches out to throttle him with thick, grimy fingers, until the appendage hangs by bare threads of sinew, the bone slashed clean through. With no other option, the Orc lunges at him, its maw open wide, fetid air from its breath blasting Faramir in the face as it forces him up a ruined stairway. 

_I cannot get a clean swing in such close quarters_ , Faramir panics, his fingers closing on crumbling stone as he backs away from the creature, his back pressed too close to unyielding walls. He strikes at its legs, hoping to cut it down at the knees, but his sword glances off its armoured legs, ineffective.

Suddenly, the heel of his boot slips on the shattered stone and Faramir lands hard on his back, the wind knocked from him. The Orc, sensing its advantage, _leaps_ at him, and Faramir wrenches his sword upward, desperate, a last valiant effort, but the angle is all _wrong_ , it will not pierce through—

The Orc collapses against Faramir, a great and heavy weight, Faramir’s sword having found its mark. Plunged deep within the creature’s chest from the weak armour beneath its arm. 

Faramir forces it backward and lops its head off, turning away from its unseeing eyes; they are persistent creatures, and he shudders to think of how many more he must yet kill, for the sake of protecting his comrades. His home.

Just then, the Nazgûl lets loose another ear-splitting shriek, and Faramir’s heart leaps at this opportunity; here, on these ruined stairs that the Orc had driven him into, is the vantage point he had sought. He takes the steps two at a time, finding the highest point, but then the Nazgûl is right _there_ , an arrow’s flight away, and Faramir watches the wraith lean forward in anticipation, stretch forth its hand for—

_Frodo, that is Frodo up there—the ring, the Nazgûl wants the ring_

All at once, it strikes Faramir that the ring has only ever wanted to return to its master. That it will indeed turn the tide of the war, but never in their favour. It had whispered its promises and secret seductions like the sirens of old, but ever had they been lies and empty assurances, tailored to its wielder and those around it. Ensuring it would pass from one owner to the next, until it found its way back into Sauron’s hands.

It is indeed an evil entity; no object that could have snared his brother so completely could be good.

As Sam tackles Frodo to the ground, keeping the ring out of the Nazgûl’s reach for just a moment longer—he _had_ been honest about their quest to destroy it, Faramir realizes now, and Frodo too—Faramir is already nocking an arrow in his bow, letting it fly. Sinks it deep into the chest of the Nazgûl’s mount, darkly satisfied at the rasping screech the fell-beast makes as it retreats. The wounded thrashing of its wings. 

With the Nazgûl’s retreat, the Orcs are left leaderless, lost, and they beat a hasty retreat of their own to the eastern shores of Osgiliath, lands long appropriated for their ill use.

Faramir furrows his brow and frowns, finding revulsion and puzzlement both in the abrupt shift in their mission. He recalls Boromir’s observation that the Orcs’ courage came from their numbers—that they drew strength from a strong lead, a commander that would herd the writhing, twisted masses, but scattered like mayflies in the absence of one. Yet another part of him wonders if this attack, and the many before it, were simply the enemy’s test of their defences. A probe to determine the strength of Gondor’s armies before bringing the full might of Mordor against them.

 _Sauron knows now that we do not have the strength to repel him_ , Faramir thinks bitterly. _And our only hope lies now in the ring; not in its assistance, but its destruction_.

By the time Faramir returns to the Halflings, he finds Sam in the middle of his reassurances to Frodo. Not empty platitudes meant to console, but words to stir Frodo’s courage, giving him the will to summon his own.

“In the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow,” Sam says. “Even darkness must pass. A new day will come.”

 _Even darkness must pass_ , thinks Faramir, the words striking the very heart of him. He leans against a ruined battlement for support. _A new day will come_. Sam’s words loosen something in his chest, the twisted coil of hurt and dread that has dwelled there since he learned of Boromir’s death.

“And when the sun shines,” Sam continues, “it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”

“What are we holding onto, Sam?” Frodo asks. He sounds all forms of tired, especially the soul-harrying kind Faramir has felt all his life.

“That there's some _good_ in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for.”

Faramir swallows hard; Sam’s words have bolstered his own courage as well, banishing the last of the ring’s compulsion upon him. Lets him fight off the yearning to hoard this ring for the city, for Gondor, simply because Boromir had given his life for it. 

The only decision he needs make now is whether he has it in him to be the better man. To let Sam and Frodo go and continue their quest to destroy the ring, and put an end to the very thing that had led to his brother’s death. 

_A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality_ , he muses. 

His father’s words, these, had been meant to be cruel, but always Boromir had turned them against Denethor, using the words, kind, when he said, _You have shown your quality, Faramir, in all that you do. And I know it to be of the very highest_. 

How Boromir had always had faith in him, even when their father did not!

 _I will do what I judge to be right_ , Faramir decides, finding courage from within himself, as he makes his way toward Frodo and Sam beneath the shambles of archways. _There_ is _good in this world. And it_ is _worth fighting for_. 

The Halflings look up as he approaches, and Sam steels himself for more conflict, angling his body between Faramir and Frodo. His hand rests on the dagger at his waist, cautious. 

“I think,” Faramir says slowly, as he kneels before them, “that at last we understand one another, Frodo Baggins.” He recognizes their quest at last; understands the burden that Frodo bears. Nods gratefully at Sam, for the closure his caustic words have given Faramir. The closure their quest itself will bring to him. “Samwise Gamgee.”

Madril, who has come to stand at Faramir’s back, clears his throat. 

“You know the laws of our country,” he warns, in light of Faramir’s implicit promise to free the Halflings. “The laws of your father.” His words ring hollow, however, the lines of tension in his face relaxing in relief. As if he thinks Faramir, too, is doing the right thing. He pauses, the shadow of Denethor’s legacy hanging heavy still upon them. “If you let them go…your life will be forfeit.”

Moved by Sam’s words, Faramir would rather defy such laws; would be caught striving to be some of the _good_ in this world than cower behind inaction. “Then it is forfeit,” Faramir declares. He nods to the Rangers restraining Sam and Frodo. “Release them.”

Only after, when he spots Madril and Anborn sharing a _look_ , conferring wordlessly before eyeing several other Rangers, does Faramir realize how that sounded: that he declared his life forfeit because his brother was dead. 

While their worry is not entirely unfounded, Faramir sighs; from his careless comment, their watch over him is likely to grow more stringent, and the recruitment of Rangers to their cause doubled. For now, he makes his escape by guiding Sam and Frodo to the secret way out of the city, the old sewer that runs through Osgiliath.

“Captain Faramir,” Sam says, before he and Frodo leave through the old tunnel. His nose and cheeks are smudged with grime, but his grateful beam toward Faramir shines all the brighter for it. “You’ve shown your quality, sir—the very highest.”

Faramir manages a wisp of a smile at this, this small reminder of Boromir in Sam’s words, and nods in acknowledgment. “Go,” he says. “Go with the goodwill of all Men.” He watches them trudge into the long dark of the tunnel, hoping for their safe passage. Hoping that they can trust the creature that claims to lead them by secret pathways into Mordor.

 _Never has the fate of so many been entrusted to so few_ , he muses. 

Faramir wonders if he should have posted a Ranger to accompany them, at least until they reached the borders of Mordor. But his men do not know the ways through the mountain passes, and the Halflings have too sore a need for secrecy to suffer the company of an ill-prepared Ranger. And the most compelling reason, one that warns him against aiding them further than he already has, is that he senses this journey is their own. 

_We each have our own journeys to make_ , Faramir decides in the end, turning away from the tunnel. 

_And our own burdens to bear_.

~

Faramir and his Rangers spend the remainder of the day salvaging what weaponry they can from the dead. Move stone and ruined battlements away from pathways, to make the crossing through the battered remains of Osgiliath easier for Gondor’s armies.

He is just about to command their return to Henneth Annûn before the light of day fades, when one of his Rangers, a new recruit, comes riding into the city, both rider and horse breathless in their haste. Rador had been posted as a lookout, to patrol their side of Osgiliath and keep watch for the return of the Orc bands. 

“Captain Faramir!” he calls, dismounting in a hurry. He nearly falls on his face when his foot catches in the stirrup. 

Faramir steadies Rador with a hand before he plummets to the ground. “What is it, Rador? Are you hurt?” Faramir asks, worried. He had thought a position in the patrol would allow him to gain experience without pitting him against the Orcs in battle immediately, but—

“Your brother!” Rador exclaims, when he has regained his balance. He rummages through the pouch at his belt. Produces a scroll, worn from the elements, that is bound by a simple leather cord. “This was taken from a messenger who was on his way to Minas Tirith. Since the letter was addressed to you, we intercepted him and brought it to you. Captain Faramir, your brother—”

“He lives,” Faramir says immediately, his heart soaring in his chest. It is a statement he wishes to be truth more than a question. He knows his hands are gripping Rador’s shoulders too tight, shaking him when Faramir knows has no right to. “Please,” he whispers, desperate. “Tell me he _lives_.”

There could be no news more ill than that of Boromir’s death, his sundered horn a token that had filled Faramir’s heart with dread. And now, his Ranger’s breathlessness and haste could only mean that—

Rador nods, pressing the letter into Faramir’s hands, and try as he might, Faramir cannot stop the tremor in his hands, even as his fingers close around the missive of hope, tight.

“The messenger told me that Lord Boromir had taken a grievous injury, but that he is resting and recuperating in a small fishing village near the Mouths of Entwash.” He pauses. “They have requested that soldiers from Minas Tirith be sent to retrieve him.” At this, Rador gives Faramir a wry smile, his eyes darting to the addition of new ruins to Osgiliath from the last battle. “At our earliest convenience, of course.”

Faramir nods, thanking Rador before dismissing him. Reflects on how perhaps the old adage rings true, that one good turn deserves another, and for the first time in days, allows himself to hope. “Madril,” Faramir says, motioning the Ranger over. “Our defenses. Will they hold?”

Madril’s brow furrows as he pauses, considering. “We can hold the city until—” He smiles, wan. “Our defenses will hold. For another three days, at least.”

It is a lie, and Faramir knows it; he hears it in Madril’s voice, sees it in the tremor of fingers clenched around his sword hilt. Even coupled with the forces of the warriors from Gondor, the Rangers could only hold Osgiliath for another day or so. If luck held, at least until Faramir could return. 

But Faramir wants so very much to _believe_ , that he sets off regardless, the thought of _Boromir, Boromir, Boromir_ leaving him blind to all else. Other matters—the fate of Osgiliath, how he will find the obscure fishing village, and how he will even make the journey there alone when Orcs crawl along every path and causeway from here to the Eastfold—are so very far from his mind. Instead, they are dwarfed by thoughts of whether Boromir is safe where he is. If he is well. If he is cared for.

 _Wait for me, Boromir_ , Faramir thinks, his heart buoyant with joy. _I am coming for you_. 

He had found it curious that his dream of Boromir dead, sailing out to the sea in a light-filled craft, had not plagued him in the nights since the sounding of Boromir’s horn. As if something had happened to chase away the reality of that vision. Had _changed_ it somehow. But as much as Faramir had wished for this to be true, he had quashed the tiny seedling of hope in his heart. Had thought it better to have assumed the worst and be wrong, than to hope for the best and be met only with heartbreak and sorrow. 

Now, though— _now_ , Faramir’s heart soars, and he hums absently as he goes about filling his water skin. Securing provisions for his journey. 

Soon he will have his brother by his side again, and together, they can accomplish _anything_.

With his supplies gathered, Faramir stops by the tower where Madril and several other Rangers are stationed. By now, all the Rangers have heard of Boromir’s miraculous survival, and they cluster around Faramir with words of encouragement and wishes for his safe journey. Faramir acknowledges their wishes with a grateful smile, before clapping a hand on his most trusted advisor’s shoulder. 

“Madril. I must set out for the Eastfold tonight, to find my brother,” says Faramir. “I shall entrust the Rangers’ command to you in my absence.” He squeezes Madril’s shoulder, silencing him, when Madril opens his mouth in protest. “There is no man better suited to this task than you,” Faramir adds, beaming. Grizzled as he is, Madril still has fight in him yet, and the benefit of battle and commanding experience beyond even Faramir’s.

Madril nods, his hand coming up to meet Faramir’s where it is clasped to his shoulder. “I wish you luck on your journey, then.” After a moment’s pause, he says softer still, “I hope you find your brother well.” There is something like sympathy in his eyes, that makes Faramir wonder if he knows just how long Faramir had wept in nights past. He has no time to dwell on that, however, as Mablung and Damrod bar his way before he leaves. 

“Captain Faramir,” Damrod tries, hesitant. If Faramir did not know better, he would almost say Damrod, ever the worrier, was wringing his hands like a lovesick maiden. “I cannot, in good conscience, let you brave these lands alone. Even if it _is_ to bring back your brother. I mean, I am sure Lord Boromir will be an asset on the way back, but—”

“What Damrod _means_ ,” Mablung says hastily, clapping Damrod and Faramir on the back both, “is that we are coming with you. Whether you wish it or no.”

Faramir grins, heartened by the concern of his friends, poor as they are in hiding it. “Let us make haste then,” he says, as he helps them corral several riderless horses for the journey. “Boromir has never been the patient sort, and I am sure he is eager to return to us, as Minas Tirith is ever in his thoughts.”

And if Mablung and Damrod share a purposeful look, as if to debate who is _really_ the impatient one of the brothers and what is _truly_ in Boromir’s thoughts, Faramir pretends not to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my take on some of the motivations movie!Faramir might have had; why he’s at first adamant about the ring going to Gondor, as opposed to book!Faramir who simply starts off saying he “…would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and [he] alone could save her”.
> 
>  **OST:**  
>  \- Faramir, Upon Finding the Horn of Gondor: [ Brother, My Brother – Adele McAllister](http://everywindintheriver.tumblr.com/post/73644239732/there-were-a-lot-of-sad-things-about-boromir-and). A beautiful gifset based on lyrics from this song can be found [here](http://eyeus.tumblr.com/post/86621046337/glorfindhel-oh-brother-my-brother-where-have).
> 
> \- Faramir, Alone In His Grief: [ I Can’t Love You Back – Easton Corbin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NFZKjaoGvw).


	4. Reunite, Reignite

~

The messenger Aragorn had sent to Minas Tirith with the missive of Boromir’s whereabouts had sent word to the village that his message was delivered. 

But that was five days ago; Boromir has been waiting for Faramir since, for _five days_. 

From Boromir’s experience, the ride from Minas Tirith to this village should take no more than three, and a tight kernel of worry settles at the base of his stomach at the thought. He wonders if some fell occurrence has befallen Faramir. If he has been attacked, or encountered inclement weather—but then, his brother is skilled enough in the art of woodcraft that he would eventually find his way without issue. 

If it was indeed Faramir who was coming for him. 

Had it been another who rode from Minas Tirith, Boromir has no doubt they would take longer; perhaps Faramir could not be spared from the fight at the front to come for him. Gondor could ill afford to lose one of its Captains at such a crucial time.

It is for the same reason that Boromir decides he will keep his desire to rejoin the Fellowship, to look for the Halflings, hidden. Even if he could convince Faramir to come with him, Gondor could not spare both its Captains in the war. 

He is lying in bed, well enough now to room elsewhere in the village than the healer’s herb-scented shack, as he ponders these thoughts for the hundredth time.

His limbs are sore from the menial tasks he does for the villagers, but as much as he does not wish to admit it, the gathering of firewood, drawing of water from the wells, and several successful patrols with the village’s makeshift army has helped slowly but surely to bring him back to fighting form. The morning sun peeks now through the worn, straw-colored shades over the window, a fiery orange glow that has Boromir trying to throw a hand over his eyes. His hand is caught in the blanket, however, despite his insistent tug, and Boromir sighs, resigning himself to suffering the irritating light. As beautiful and brilliant as he is sure it is, it remains an annoyance at present, and one hardly deserving of his attention, with the multitude of thoughts and worries he has.

What _does_ capture his attention, however, is the sudden, blissful darkness against the blazing sun that paints his eyelids red, and he startles at the sound of a heavy chair sliding across a threadbare rug. The motion of someone moving to shade him from the sun’s light. 

His eyes springing open, Boromir instantly tries to rise, to grapple for his sword—any man of Gondor should know better than to skulk around in the room of one of its Captains—but winces as the motion twists his injuries. 

A hand lays itself gently over his chest, pressing him to the bed. “Rest, Boromir. You should not be up and about. Not yet.”

Boromir’s eyes widen at the easy cadence of the voice, the husky quality of it; he would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Faramir peering at him, worried, one hand clasping his, hence the restraint, and his other stroking the hair from Boromir’s brow, gentle, and oh, how Boromir _wants_ , to kiss him, to touch him, to pull him into the tightest embrace and never let go—

“Faramir,” he rasps. “ _Faramir_.” Reaches for his brother and tugs him into a kiss that is all teeth and desperation, their limbs a tangled mess in their need to touch, to wind around each other, clutching, tight.

“ _Boromir_ ,” Faramir breathes. His eyes are too bright with unshed tears, and Boromir takes a moment to kiss the corner of each eye, catching each tear that then falls as if they are perfect, precious crystals on his tongue. Touches lips to the softness of Faramir’s nose and cheeks, before returning to the fullness of his mouth.

When they finally pull apart for air, Boromir tweaks Faramir’s nose, teasing. “Skulking about in my room, were you? You should know better, little brother.”

“I arrived earlier,” Faramir explains. “And watched over you as you slept. Although,” he admits, sheepish, “I fell asleep in my vigil.”

“I hope you had sense enough not to come alone,” Boromir says, reproachful, even as his hands close, too worried, around Faramir’s. “The roads are not safe these days, even for a Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Even,” Boromir breathes into the shell of Faramir’s ear, his voice pitched low, seductive, “for a Captain of _Gondor_.”

The flush at the base of Faramir’s neck rises to the tips of his ears. “I would have done, but Mablung and Damrod insisted on accompanying me in my journey to find you.” He nods toward the far wall. “They have the room beside us.”

“As well they should,” laughs Boromir. “No soldier would leave their Captain to brave the dangers of the open road alone, much less a Ranger of Gondor.”

“I will not soon forget their loyalty,” Faramir assures, before smiling, relieved, and pressing in close. “I am—I am glad to see you well,” he manages. There is a strange hoarseness to his voice that Boromir cannot quite place, but he casts the thought from his mind as Faramir winds fingers through his, warm and familiar.

“How came you to be here?” Boromir marvels. “Gondor has not the men to spare on such a venture.” He lets his free hand wander over Faramir’s visage, tracing the curve of his cheeks and lips. Lets his fingers trail along shoulders and forearms, lean and strong with corded muscle, until they come to rest on Faramir’s velvet-soft archer’s gloves, crafted of smoothest, strongest deerhide. 

Faramir’s fingers curl more tightly within his. “Our father would spare neither expense nor any number of men to regain his heir,” he says wryly. “And I would have arrived sooner, but we were waylaid by a small band of Orcs as we passed Cair Andros. Forgive me.”

There is a lie in there somewhere, and Boromir knows it; knows from the way Faramir’s eyes hesitate before meeting his. The way his fingers worry at his tunic, picking at a loop of loose thread, a habit he has not yet cast off from their childhood days. Faramir has no reason to lie about the Orcs, so his falsehood lies in the statement about their father. 

_Oh_ , Boromir realizes, with a start.

It was true that Gondor had not the men to spare to bring Boromir home; therefore, Denethor had not sent men—had not even known his son might have fallen. Faramir must have journeyed post-haste from where he had been, whether it be Osgiliath, Minas Tirith, or his Rangers’ hideout at Henneth Annûn, to find him. 

Such a swell of affection rises in his chest at that, that Boromir finds himself wordless for a moment, but he lets the lie stand for now. “Come, let us speak of other things, Faramir,” he says. He keeps hold of Faramir’s hand, moving to tug his brother into the empty space beside him on the cramped bed. When Faramir appears pensive, however, Boromir sighs. “What? What is it?”

“What if one of my Rangers were to walk in on us? Or one of the villagers?” Faramir shakes his head, and breathes a soft sigh of his own. “It was _you_ ,” Faramir murmurs, as if hardly daring to hope, “who said we should show more discretion.”

“Mmhn,” Boromir smiles, toying at a curl of hair by Faramir’s ear. “Discretion, yes, but we are here in closed chambers, are we not? If you have slid the bolt in the door, we will be fine.” His smile dims when still Faramir hesitates at the edge of the bed, though his upper body strains towards Boromir with obvious _want_. “Faramir,” Boromir says softly. “I did say that. And I am sorry for it—for the hurt it has caused you.”

“Boromir—” 

“But nearly perishing in my quest has brought my priorities into sharper focus,” Boromir adds, by way of explanation. He cradles Faramir’s cheek with a roughened palm, his thumb tracing the arch of Faramir’s cheekbone. “Please, Faramir. Would you make me beg, in this?”

Faramir shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice oddly rough. “You know I would not.”

Boromir tugs at Faramir’s hand again. “Then come _here_ ,” he insists, opening his arms, and this time, at the invitation, Faramir hesitates for less than a heartbeat, stripping off his cloak and tunic to slide into bed beside him. Slips into Boromir’s waiting arms and curls his own behind Boromir’s shoulders in an embrace of his own.

With a soft sigh of relief, Boromir cradles the back of Faramir’s head, bringing their mouths together, warm. Lets his fingers slip through soft curls, loving the way Faramir moves naturally into their kiss, as if they have done this a million times before, but no less ardent, as if this time, _each_ time is special.

They while away long moments like this, simply kissing and touching, with small, close-mouthed presses of lips and exploratory fingers against skin as they breathe each other’s air. 

Faramir strokes light fingertips along the line of Boromir’s collarbone. Slides them carefully over the bandages, as Boromir winds a hand over the jut of Faramir’s hip, gentle. He closes an arm around Boromir’s waist, mindful of the wounds at his shoulder and torso, and cradles Boromir’s head in the curve of his elbow, as he cards his fingers through Boromir’s hair.

His fingers tremble with a barely perceptible tremor, but Boromir feels it as keenly as a full-body shudder, and he lets his own fingers rub a trail of circles, gentle, from the nape of Faramir’s neck to the small of his back, to soothe. To reassure. Kisses Faramir’s brow, again and again, more than thankful that he can have this, this closeness, this safety, in his brother’s arms once again.

“That you are here with me again is nothing short of a miracle,” says Faramir, echoing Boromir’s own thoughts. “For I dreamt that you…” Faramir pauses, closing his eyes as if by doing so, he can will away the contents of the dream. “I dreamt you had fallen. I—I thought you _dead_.” 

He wraps his arms around Boromir, hands knotting tight at Boromir’s back, and Faramir’s breathing is too fast all of a sudden, too erratic. _Here_ is the reason for the hoarseness in his brother’s voice, the tremble of his lip: he had thought Boromir lost to him, had bitterly grieved his loss for days, before finding out otherwise, and by then his heart was nearly beyond repair.

Boromir leans in to press their foreheads together, warm. Nudges the tips of their noses against each other. “Hush,” he says softly. “It did not come to pass. Not this day.”

“Nor will it,” whispers Faramir, fierce. “Not ever.” He hitches Boromir closer, as if by the strength of his embrace and sheer will, he can keep Boromir from perishing, can keep him by his side forever. Buries his face into Boromir’s neck and breathes in, deep. “Oh, Boromir,” he says, a rush of words, a torrent of raw emotion and longing, “I have _missed_ you. Two hundred thirty-six days I have not seen nor heard from you, save for the sound of your horn short days ago.”

That Faramir has counted their days apart sparks a new bloom of affection in Boromir’s chest, and he tightens his arms around Faramir’s waist, touched. “The journey to Rivendell alone took a hundred and ten,” he explains. “It was only _after_ , that I realized there was not to be a journey of a few days’ ride back to you, but of one greater than us both: one to destroy Isildur’s Bane, which had been found.”

“So it is true,” Faramir breathes, touching his forehead against Boromir’s again. “And Elrond’s Council was indeed for…” They had often discussed the riddle voiced in both their dreams, before Boromir’s departure, especially its last cryptic lines: _For Isildur’s Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand_.

Boromir nods into their embrace, glad for the fact that Faramir does not ask where his erstwhile companions, the other members of the Fellowship, are; he could not bear to tell Faramir that they had gone on without him. That he himself had been instrumental in the breaking of the Fellowship, through his folly of pursuing the ring, however noble his intentions were.

“The horn of Gondor was lost during my journey,” he says, forcing a laugh, an attempt to steer their conversation away from the ring. “I wonder what became of it.”

“Your horn washed up on the riverbank several days past,” Faramir frowns. “It was cloven in two. I am afraid it is beyond repair at the moment.” 

“A pity,” Boromir sighs, before grinning wryly. “What shall I rally the armies of Gondor with _now_?”

Faramir gives him a reproachful squeeze. “That you still have your _life_ means much, compared to the fate of the horn,” he chides gently. “I would cleave all the heirlooms of Gondor if it meant your safe return.”

Words of Boromir’s return, his safety, bring back memories too near of all that might have prevented it: of dead eyes, ravenous mouths, and pain, lancing sharp through his body, searing, burning, his friends being taken as he knelt helpless and _useless_ —

“Boromir,” Faramir says. “ _Boromir_.” His voice is steady, grounding Boromir and bringing him back to the present, his arms a comfort against the horrors Boromir has barely kept at bay. Only then does Boromir realize he is trembling, shaking, a sheen of nervous perspiration breaking over his brow. “What is it? What troubles you so?”

“Amon Hen,” Boromir tries, his mouth too dry, his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers twitch at Faramir’s back, fearful. 

Faramir winds his fingers more snugly around Boromir’s waist. “What of it?”

“It was there, in that wretched place, that I thought I would breathe my last.” Boromir sighs and shakes his head, remembering. He curls his hands under Faramir’s shoulders, and chokes out a broken laugh. “You would think me selfish, little brother. That my very last thought was not of the safety of the Hobbits I failed to protect, captured as they were by the Uruk-hai. Nor was it of the fate of the ring. Nothing so noble as that. Or as grand.”

“What was it, then?” Faramir asks, quiet, going very still in Boromir’s arms. As if holding his breath, waiting for this revelation.

“My last thought—my last regret—was that I would never see you again.” A tear rolls unbidden down Boromir’s cheek, and he suddenly feels ashamed, that Faramir would see this weakness, this vulnerability, even if he is the only one in the world who would not judge Boromir for it. 

That it was the thought of Faramir that sustained him, that brought him here goes without saying, and Faramir relaxes into their embrace, shushing him with quiet, whispered nothings. Frames Boromir’s face with warm, calloused palms. “You are here now,” he soothes. “ _I_ am here. There is nothing to fear.” He kisses Boromir on the brow, gentle. “Ever have you been the strong one, brother. But this time, let me be strong for _you_.” 

He winds his arms around Boromir’s waist again, and fits their bodies together, warm. Lets the heat of his chest steep into Boromir’s back as he curls into him, a bulwark against all that would harm him and bring him to ruin. And with his brother at his back, as shield and protector both, Boromir finally returns to a deep, restful slumber.

~

“I know you wish to rejoin the others in the search for the Halflings,” Faramir says, “but the fact of it remains that the rest of the Fellowship is beyond our reach now, Boromir.” He lays his head on Boromir’s uninjured shoulder, the soft curls of his hair against skin oddly comforting. “It would take us days to catch them up.”

“What are you suggesting, then?” Boromir asks, yawning, still newly woken. The sun is at its highest in the sky now, however, and even he knows that he and Faramir cannot spend the rest of the day lying abed. Heat springs to his cheeks, instant, when he realizes Faramir has worked out his most prominent desire, without him even saying so. From the barest and simplest of stories Boromir had regaled him with about his time in the Fellowship.

Faramir eyes Boromir’s bandaged shoulder and torso steadily. “Ride back with me to Minas Tirith,” he says. “There, you will receive proper care. And when you are healed enough, we can entertain the possibility of locating and joining up with the members of your Fellowship again.” 

Boromir frowns, despite the sense behind Faramir’s suggestion. “I would not rest behind the walls of Minas Tirith while my friends are—”

“Boromir.” Faramir’s right hand slides smoothly over the flat plane of Boromir’s belly, where it had rested, to slip into Boromir’s left, their fingers tangling together, loose. “You are still wounded. What help will you be to your friends, with an injured shoulder? When you can barely take more than two shallow breaths without resting? When—”

“All _right_ ,” sighs Boromir, silencing him with a hard peck to the mouth. “You have made your case.” Faramir speaks the truths he does not wish to hear, but Boromir knows he only does so out of love and concern. He draws Faramir closer with the arm he has slung about Faramir’s shoulders. “When shall we leave?”

Faramir pauses. “If you are fit to travel, I will ready the horses now.”

“Then I will prepare the provisions we need for the journey,” Boromir nods. “And say my goodbyes before we leave.”

They rise to throw on their tunics and cloaks, and have a hurried, modest breakfast of cheese and bread. Boromir hoards sections of both into a pack as food for their journey, before filling their water skins from the kettle. Finally, they ready their weapons—Boromir, his sword and shield, and Faramir, his sword and bow. 

“I shall be back shortly,” Faramir calls, before leaving to gather the horses.

“Wait,” Boromir says, hurrying his steps to catch Faramir at the door. Pins Faramir against it, the scant inch it was open slamming shut behind them, as he clutches greedy handfuls of Faramir’s cloak in his hands. He would wind fingers into Faramir’s hair, if he could, to tug him close and nip kisses along jaw and throat and mouth, until his hair was a tousled mess, lovely in its disarray. Until his lips were swollen the red of berries ripe, every inch of them explored by Boromir and found to be just as sweet. 

As it is, Boromir manages restraint enough to give Faramir only a quick press of lips to the mouth. A final kiss to tide them over until they reach Minas Tirith. 

Faramir touches fingers to his lips and smiles, soft and fond, the motion crinkling his eyes at the corner, before he winds arms around Boromir’s neck. Surges forward to return his kiss in kind, mouth moving eagerly beneath his. Boromir takes this as permission to pull him in, hot and wanting, to slide his tongue just inside Faramir’s mouth, and touch the roof of his mouth, tasting Faramir’s tongue in turn, before Faramir pulls away, gasping.

“ _Enough_ ,” laughs Faramir, “or we shall still be here come nightfall.”

There is logic in this, Boromir decides. And though he releases Faramir’s waist with a grumble, he secretly revels in the pleasing flush that has risen to Faramir’s cheeks.

Faramir darts forward, kissing him once more, hard. “This is not the end of the matter,” he says, arching a brow. It is a promise that there will be more to come later, and Boromir grins in response.

By the time Faramir brings the horses by, Boromir has bid his farewells and thanks both to the village’s healer and several of the village’s makeshift army. Mablung and Damrod, both mounted atop their own steeds, tip a nod in Boromir’s direction.

“My Lord,” they murmur, in respect.

There is, however, no horse to be had for Boromir himself. And while he would not presume to take one of the village’s precious horses for his own use, this is a predicament indeed.

“Faramir,” he tries, caught between amusement and incredulity. “What is the meaning of this?” 

“We had to travel lightly and quickly; we did not have the means to bring another horse,” Faramir says. He quirks a grin then, holding out a hand to help Boromir up behind him. “But if it does not displease you, I would have you ride with me, brother.”

Boromir matches Faramir’s expression with a grin of his own. Faramir’s benefit is twofold; not only will they be allowed to ride together, but Faramir will be able to keep an eye out for him, and gauge the extent of Boromir’s exhaustion and injuries both.

“Displease me?” Boromir laughs, as he mounts and winds his arms around Faramir’s waist. “No. The very opposite, in fact.”

“Then hold fast to me,” says Faramir. “We make for Minas Tirith at once.” And he urges the horse into an unexpected gallop, startling a squawk out of Boromir that is less than dignified.

Faramir even has the gall to chuckle about it after.

~

They ride hard, stopping only to water the horses and resupply at villages as they require. By the time Faramir announces the last leg of their journey for the day, the sun is ready to dip beyond the horizon, its golden light limning the treeline even as it threatens to fade into the long shadows of the dark.

Boromir sighs, resting his face in the hood of Faramir’s cloak; it makes a lovely pillow, and cushions the jostling of their ride. 

“What is it, Boromir?” Faramir asks. When Boromir remains silent, Faramir nudges him in the ribs with an elbow, insistent. “You have only been sighing for the better part of the afternoon. Out with it, before I mistake you for some lovelorn maiden.”

“ _Lovelorn_?” Boromir laughs, tightening his arms around Faramir’s waist once, in retaliation. “For whom else but _you_?”

Faramir touches Boromir’s knee, gentle, but the steadiness of his grip shows that he will not stand for Boromir’s prevarication. They have so rarely hidden things from one another; they will not start now.

“I,” Boromir tries, before burying his face deeper into the hood of Faramir’s cloak, reveling in its warmth. “I was only thinking of the journey I undertook after Rivendell.” 

Faramir hums, thoughtful. “What of it?”

“The things I saw! I wish I could have taken you with me, Faramir. The halls of Moria, which I am sure no Man has laid eyes upon for long years—the ethereal beauty of Lothlorien—and the majestic Argonath!”

Faramir laughs. “I am sure you saw a great many things, brother. Perhaps we may have time to revisit them together. After.”

 _After the business of the Ring_ , Boromir surmises, and he quiets, then. “Not all the sights were wonderful to behold.”

“Oh?” says Faramir. “You mean those within the depths of Moria, I presume.” He lowers his voice. “What horrors did you see, down there in the dark?”

“Not only Moria,” Boromir says, “though its once-grand halls teemed with Orcs, like a great, writhing sea. And following swiftly behind them was Durin’s Bane, against which we lost Gandalf—Mithrandir, as he was known to you,” Boromir amends, knowing how Faramir had spent long years under the wizard’s tutelage. He thinks he hears Faramir swallow, the apple of his throat shifting hard at the knowledge of the loss, but he does not seem surprised. “And at Amon Hen,” Boromir says, “there were deformed beings, like Orcs, but larger and stronger, that could move in the daylight.”

“The Uruk-hai emblazoned with the White Hand of Saruman, yes,” Faramir muses. “It is rumored that Saruman bred his own from Orcs and Men.”

The memory of that day brings to mind the one Uruk that had sunk arrows deep into his chest. Had nearly taken his life, as if Boromir was no more than a fly to be swatted away. This, so soon after the most hideous horror Boromir had seen: that of _himself_ , his expression twisted with rage, as he had fought Frodo for the ring.

Boromir pauses, before forcing himself to speak. “Faramir. You know I—I set out from Rivendell, with eight companions. One of them, a Hobbit, was the Ringbearer. Such a heavy burden, for one so small.”

“Yes,” says Faramir. “I have heard as such.” During their stay in the village, Boromir had shared with Faramir occasional details regarding his journey with the Fellowship. He had not elaborated on the circumstances of their parting, however.

“We swore an oath to protect the Ringbearer. _I_ swore an oath.” Boromir swallows, hard, before saying the most difficult words. “And then I tried to take it from him.” How the Ring had spoken to him then! Had tempted him into coveting it, all the while whispering of the victory Gondor might achieve over Mordor, all the lives that might be spared, the blood that would not be spilt. It had known of their father’s words, twisted them against him, in him, until he thought they were his own.

Boromir shivers; too well he remembers the forceful words with which he had accosted the Council: _By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe!_ They had been a pale echo of his father’s: _It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is massing fresh armies, and when he returns, we will be powerless to stop him._

 _You must_ go; _bring me back this mighty gift!_

When Boromir speaks again, his voice feels too heavy with sorrow, with shame. “I might have _killed_ for it.”

“Boromir,” Faramir tries, but Boromir shakes his head; he needs to say this, he _must_.

“Father says that ever the Ring seeks to corrupt the hearts of lesser men, and I…Faramir, I—” _I am that lesser man. The weak link that sundered the Fellowship_. He loosens his arms from around Faramir’s waist; he does not deserve this warmth, this understanding from his brother. 

Faramir roars at that with such uncharacteristic vehemence that it shocks Boromir from his melancholy, and clutches at Boromir’s arms, tight. “You are no less a man for that,” Faramir says firmly. “The ring has ensnared many in its thrall. Even Isildur himself was ensorcelled by it.” He pauses, reflective. “I might have fallen prey to its lure as well, had it not been for the Halflings’ warning. Of its hold on you.” 

Boromir sighs, heartened at least that his own ensnarement would keep his brother from the same fate, when the last half of his statement registers.

“The _Halflings’_ warning?” Boromir exclaims, surprised. “When did you encounter them? And where?”

“I caught them skulking in the grass as a battalion of Haradrim marched through Ithilien, several days past. They tried to impart upon me the magnitude of their quest, the details of which they would not reveal to me until under duress.” Faramir huffs a soft laugh. “They called themselves Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee of the Shire—a Hobbit and his gardener stealing into Mordor—can you imagine? That is one for the history books indeed.”

Boromir, who had sat up straighter at the mention of Halflings, deflates, unable to share fully in Faramir’s merriment. “Ah,” he says. This meant that the Hobbits he had failed, Merry and Pippin, had not yet been found. That Frodo and Sam had last been in the company of Faramir and his men is a comforting thought, however, and he lets himself sag further into Faramir’s back, relieved. “What did you do with them, then?”

Faramir pauses, as if to consider his answer. “I let them go. If luck holds, the Halflings and the ring will have found their way into Mordor by now.”

Boromir hangs his head, letting it rest between Faramir’s shoulder blades, defeated; like Aragorn, Faramir, too, had done what he could not. 

“Oh, Boromir,” Faramir sighs. He touches Boromir’s hands where they are wound around his waist again, a kind and reassuring weight. “I have long shared your joys and sorrows, your hurts and your fears,” he says. “Do you think a moment’s madness would undo the years we have shared? _No_. I know you better than anyone. Certainly better than a Ring of Power that might prey on an instant of fear and doubt. I know the man that you _are_.” 

He threads his fingers between Boromir’s once more, and Boromir can feel the flow of his affection through this simple touch, warm and unconditional, and he could weep, because he does not ask for Faramir’s understanding and continued faith in him, yet Faramir gives it, wholly, unfailingly. 

“Faramir,” he tries, and something like a sob lodges in his throat, hindering his words: _I am not worthy of your easy forgiveness. I do not deserve the chances you offer me, time and time again_. It is just as well, for when Faramir turns for the briefest moment, his expression shows that he will brook no such self-pitying nonsense.

“I shall tell you this now, Boromir: fight with me, when the armies of Mordor come calling. Stand with me, that you may rise above that momentary madness, when you were not yourself, and you will make things right.” His grip on Boromir’s hands wound about him is tight, but not bruising, and just the right amount of warm.

“Will I?” Boromir asks, doubtful. “What of the oath I swore, the vow I made to protect, broken? That cannot be so easily forgiven and forgotten.”

“No,” Faramir agrees truthfully. “But in time, your deeds of honor and valor will speak for themselves.” He nudges Boromir, gentle. “Have you not already started, protecting Frodo’s kin by your own strength? Such deeds will redeem you, in time. And,” Faramir adds, softer still, “when you see Frodo again, if you still feel the need, you can apologize to him yourself.” Faramir sounds so resolute, unyielding in his belief, that Boromir has no choice but to believe in his brother.

Lettings his arms circle Faramir snugly once more, Boromir buries his face in the back of Faramir’s cloak, taking comfort from the familiar musk of dried leaves and earth and _Faramir_. “Only now do I see my folly,” he says. “I thought the ring would give me the strength to protect Gondor and our people. For so _long_ we have fought Mordor, watched our friends and allies die in the trying, and I thought we might—I thought, finally—but it was not to be,” Boromir says, with a tight exhale of disappointment.

Faramir’s hand tightens around Boromir’s where they are knotted at his waist. “ _I_ will be your strength,” he says, determined, “as I always have. And you, mine. We shall do this _together_.” And by the way Faramir’s grip tightens around Boromir’s hand, hot, Boromir _believes_ ; that they can do this. That together, they can protect Gondor, overcome any adversity.

Together, they are _invincible_.

In a fit of childish mischief, he slaps the rump of their horse, startling it into a frenzied gallop. They take off at breakneck speed, and with the wind in his hair and his brother by his side, Boromir lets loose a whoop of joy, much like he had so long ago, before the burden of Gondor’s fate became his to bear. Now, with the assurance that his burden is halved, he feels lighter than air itself.

Faramir allows the unbridled speed for all of five heartbeats before tightening the reins and slowing their horse back into a controlled gallop. “Boromir,” he says with a reproving glare as he turns, “we are long past the days when you could startle my horse into bolting off like that.” His tone is fond, however, and before long, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Boromir laughs, memories bubbling to the surface of Faramir as a child, sailing past him on his spooked horse, bawling like a babe before Boromir raced to catch him up, to calm his brother more than the horse. “Yes, but it was amusing, was it not?” Boromir says, grinning. “Admit it. _Admit_ it,” he. He dips his head and touches the tip of his nose to Faramir’s reproachful finger in his face, playful.

Faramir hums thoughtfully. “Amusing, yes, but for that, I should subject you to the indignity of riding in front of me. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Surely not!” Boromir frowns. “I could even ride on my own, if you permitted. Perhaps if Mablung and Damrod rode together, I could—”

“And for _that_ impudence, I rather think I will,” Faramir says, his mouth curling into an odd half-smile. He slows the horse to a stop. “Off,” he commands, and Boromir dismounts grudgingly, before clasping his brother’s helping hand to mount the horse again, this time in front of Faramir. “Now _turn_ ,” Faramir says.

Boromir positions his rear just past the pommel of the saddle, both his legs to one side of the horse. It is an unsteady position, in his opinion, unless Faramir expects him to—

“You would have me cling to you like a limpet?” Boromir asks, even as he slips his arms back around Faramir’s waist, under his cloak. “A swooning maiden, in need of comfort and succor?” Truth be told, however, Faramir is warm and his cloak a cushion of sorts, and Boromir finds he cannot complain. He flashes Faramir a small, grateful smile.

Faramir laughs, knowing, and knocks his forehead against Boromir’s. “I would have you sit where I can make sure you are comfortable. That you are kept safe.” He chances a look at his Rangers that scout the path ahead; they are still far enough away, and Faramir lets his free hand rub soft, soothing circles into Boromir’s back as Boromir settles against his shoulder. “Rest, Boromir. I will tell you when we have arrived.” 

“Mmhn,” says Boromir, and though he struggles to cling to consciousness, to take in the warmth of Faramir’s skin, and breathe in the scent of his life, of pine and earth, of leather and metal, the easy rhythm of the horse’s gait and Faramir’s arms snug around him lull him into eventual sleep.

~

“Boromir?” A hand on his uninjured shoulder shakes him awake, gently. When Boromir only groans, the hand moves to his forehead. “Boromir.” A cool and calloused palm cups his cheek, worried. “I have found our lodgings for the night.”

“Oh.” Boromir blinks sleepily. “Have we not reached Minas Tirith already?” He can feel Faramir tugging the edges of the cloak about his shoulders inward, shielding Boromir from an easterly wind that nips at his cheeks and nose. Whirls away leaves and stirs currents of dust as it goes.

“No,” says Faramir. “We have stopped at a town near the Great West Road for tonight. The roads are not safe after nightfall.” Faramir dismounts first, then helps Boromir off the horse with a guiding hand. 

When they have stabled the horses for the night, Faramir first exchanges words with the man at the desk, then pays with a discreet pouch of silver coins. Passes one key to Mablung, and the other to Boromir, with a nod to Boromir to ready their room first, while Faramir sees to their packs.

The room is small but homey, and Boromir settles himself immediately on the bed, taking in the higher ceiling; no doubt this is the bigger of the two rooms they have paid for, Faramir’s men having taken the room to the right of them. 

“Well,” says Boromir, eyeing the cozy hearth they can warm themselves by in the room. “ _That_ is a sight for sore eyes indeed.” He sprawls out along the bed, letting his limbs take up all the space. 

Faramir laughs as he sets their bags down, and nudges him over to make room. “This bed is for _both_ of us,” he says, as he removes his boots. “Mablung and Damrod were given the last of the rooms with separate beds.” He takes a moment to lie along Boromir’s side, before catching the clasp of Boromir’s cloak and pulling him in for a playful kiss. “The innkeeper gave us a lower rate on this room, as it was the last one left, along with his apologies.”

“I am sure you told him we would ‘manage’ the situation somehow, with your theatrical sighs and brand of put-upon exasperation,” says Boromir, biting down on a smile. He is long familiar with Faramir’s way of bartering, whether it be for books, or horses, or weaponry.

Faramir grins. “I might have done so, yes.”

Boromir snorts and lets himself laugh at that; they have had years of _managing_ to share the same bed, and this night will prove no exception. 

They build up the fire together, and before long, the innkeeper arrives with a platter, providing them a modest dinner of stewed potatoes and chicken, paired with bread and a pitcher of mead. A small helping of fruit is included in their meal, and though this fare pales in comparison to that of Minas Tirith’s, Boromir remains grateful that the inn can spare this much at all. They eat in companionable silence, Boromir pausing every now and then to feed a log into the hearth and Faramir absently chasing a grape around his plate, or stealing bits from Boromir’s.

Two apples come with their portion of fruit, though they are but small, sour things, green and hard; it has been long years since Boromir knew the taste of _real_ apples, large and red and sweet, Gondor’s meager agricultural efforts having been overshadowed by the war. Regardless, he pares the apples, slowly, as he watches his brother in the rosy glow of the firelight. Cuts them into small, bite-sized pieces on a whim, and dips one into the well of honey, meant to flavor the meat. He touches the fruit to Faramir’s lips, slow, before pressing his thumb against Faramir’s lips instead, soft and full, and thinks he would rather like to kiss his brother. 

Faramir seems to sense Boromir’s desire, and places a grape in his own mouth. Brings their mouths together, his hand at the nape of Boromir’s neck, as he kisses Boromir, long and slow and leisurely. Crushes the globe of fruit against Boromir’s lips, before Boromir surges forward, swallowing the grape whole and cutting Faramir’s teasing provocation short.

“ _Faramir_ ,” he gasps. And as Faramir’s mouth yields sweetly under his, Boromir presses his advantage, sliding his tongue inside, touching it to Faramir’s in a kiss that is hot and wet and filthy. Claws at Faramir’s tunic, nearly tearing out the lacings in his haste. 

“Easy, brother,” Faramir warns, his hand closing over Boromir’s. “We must look presentable tomorrow, when we return home.” With his hair mussed and lips rose-red with kisses, Faramir seems too far gone to be _presentable_ , but Boromir chooses not to argue this point.

At Faramir’s last word, however, Boromir stills. _Home_. With its creature comforts, like soft sheets, ale at the ready, a well-stocked larder, and kitchens always open for the sons of the Steward—and _oh_ , the Steward, their father, proud of bearing and spiteful of tongue. Boromir shudders at the thought, suddenly in no hurry to return home, soft sheets and rich ale or no.

It appears Faramir shares the sentiment, as his brow furrows, unhappy. As if he feels he should not have made mention of their home or their father. “Be calm, Boromir,” Faramir says, regardless. He brushes his lips lightly against Boromir’s, the distraction soft and sweet. “We still have tonight.”

 _Yes_ , thinks Boromir. They still have tonight, before the responsibility and weight of Gondor’s fate sit heavy upon their shoulders once more. He kisses Faramir with renewed fervor, steering him toward the bed in the corner, and they kick the sheets aside, laughing as their feet tangle together in the ragtag quilts and blankets. Boromir urges Faramir onto his side, that they may face each other, all the while laying small, nipping kisses to his neck, his shoulder. Wrenches Faramir’s tunic off with sharp, forceful pulls, exposing more of his brother to kiss, to taste, from the divine warmth of his belly to the perfect peaks of his nipples.

With an unhappy noise, Faramir tugs him up by the shoulders. Goads Boromir into sharing wet, open-mouthed kisses, to throats and shoulders and arms—mutual, enjoyable touches that have Faramir twisting in Boromir’s grip, panting. 

“ _More_ ,” Faramir whispers, curling his arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. “More, Boromir, _please_.”

Boromir nudges his hips against Faramir’s, enjoying the slow, sweet grind of their lengths against each other through the fabric of their trousers, until even that is not nearly enough, and Faramir slips hands beneath Boromir’s tunic, raking greedy fingers into Boromir’s back. Inverts the garment as he goes, tugging it over Boromir’s head, insistent.

“All right, all _right_ ,” Boromir huffs, undoing the lacings on Faramir’s trousers and drawing out his length as Faramir fumbles at his. And then they are both out, Boromir’s the thicker and Faramir’s the leaner but longer, both just as achingly hard and wet and _wanting_.

With a hungry thrust of his hips, Boromir presses against Faramir, sliding their lengths together, but it is not enough—not enough friction, or skin, or contact—so Boromir slicks his hand with the precome that has welled out. Circles both their cocks with his fist, and slides his hand in the easy motions long established between him and his brother.

“ _Yes_ ,” Faramir gasps, his throat hoarse, his voice ruined, shuddering and clutching at Boromir’s shoulders as Boromir presses his thumb into the heads of their cocks. It is a moment more before Faramir’s hand closes over Boromir’s, closing the circle, as he joins Boromir in thumbing the slits of their cocks, stroking the shafts in an easy, rhythmic manner. Presses his forehead against Boromir’s as they let pleasure build between them, like waves cresting upon a shore, each higher and more forceful than the last until Faramir breaks away, breathless, gasping. “Boromir,” he pants, “I— _ah_. Please, I—”

“Together,” Boromir insists, his grip around them tightening, despite Faramir’s soft noise of distress. “ _Together_.” 

Their strokes grow tighter, fiercer in their need, while their mouths meet in kisses urgent and harsh, blood drawn from lips between moans and gasps as they find their way to completion. Boromir manages a choked off “Faramir, I—” before Faramir silences him with a kiss that is hard and bruising and _good_ , and together, finally, they gasp out twin cries of relief, shaking through their mutual release. 

“How I have _missed_ this,” Faramir sighs happily, as they lean back to catch their breath. He presses a thumb to the spill of his seed on Boromir’s stomach, and brings it to Boromir’s mouth. Lets it slip between waiting lips, watching mesmerized as Boromir sucks gently, swirling his tongue around the pad of Faramir’s thumb.

Boromir mirrors the motion, shivering as Faramir’s lips close around his thumb. Watches the way Faramir’s throat shifts, with each swallow of Boromir’s issue from the digit in his mouth.

“I thought,” Boromir teases after, “that perhaps you had missed my counsel, or our rousing conversations. But I see now it is only my body you have missed.”

Faramir bites down on Boromir’s thumb, gentle, in a play at being reproachful. “Fool,” he laughs. “You know of what I speak.” He fixes Boromir with a look that is warm and fond and all kinds of affectionate, one that clearly speaks _I have missed you. I have missed_ all _of you_. Strokes fingers along the muscle of Boromir’s arm, whisper-light and playful. 

As their breaths begin to even out, Boromir cleans them both off with a nearby towel, chuckling when Faramir curls into his side with a sleepy yawn. He watches his brother breathe, slowly, steadily, his chest rising in the soft moonlight, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. Thinks to say _I love you_ or _Thank you for understanding me_ , as he winds an arm around Faramir’s waist, but when Faramir releases a soft, snuffling noise, the moment is gone. 

Regardless, Boromir lies back, content with the knowledge that for now, they are safe and together; takes comfort in the fact that they can still find solace in each others’ arms.

~

It is later in the night, when Boromir feels Faramir trying to burrow deeper into his arms, making a soft, keening noise as he does so.

“Faramir?” Boromir mumbles, blinking awake. “What is it?” 

He realizes quickly that Faramir is still asleep, with his eyes shifting rapid beneath his eyelids and sweat beading on his brow. His brother is breathing too quickly, his skin too hot and clammy.

“Faramir,” Boromir whispers, shaking him. “ _Faramir_.”

Faramir’s eyes flutter open, but it is a moment more before awareness returns to them, slowly but surely. “Forgive me—it was a dream,” Faramir manages, his quick, pained gasps slowing into even breaths at last. “Nothing more.” He slips his arms around Boromir’s waist, too tight, and from that motion alone, Boromir thinks he knows the contents of the dream.

“It was a _nightmare_ , by the looks of it,” Boromir says, scowling. “Was it the same one from before?”

“No,” Faramir tries. At Boromir’s look: “Yes.” 

Faramir has by now told him of his vision, before Boromir rode for Rivendell, though he shares it only with the sparest of details, and never in its entirety. Boromir has pieced enough of it together to know, however, of how Faramir found Boromir’s body in an Elven boat, his sword broken, with crude blades set at his feet. How he had watched Boromir sail past, as he stood to his knees in the bone-chilling waters of the Anduin, helpless to do anything but watch the light-filled craft bear his brother out to the Great Sea.

Boromir soothes him, pressing a hand to his brow and smoothing back the lock of hair that has fallen over Faramir’s face. Holds him through his full-body shudders. “Look at me,” Boromir says, bringing his hands up to clasp Faramir’s face. “ _Look at me_.” 

Faramir meets his eyes, his own wide, frightened, a nearly hunted look about them. Boromir would banish the terror in them, if he could. “Boromir—”

“We are _here_ ,” Boromir growls. “We _live_. Your dream did not come to pass; let it trouble you no further, Faramir.”

Faramir sighs, his breath a wisp of warmth against Boromir’s jaw, and shakes his head. “After all that talk of being your strength, a mere nightmare has me trembling like a child.”

Boromir kisses Faramir’s brow, warm. “You _have_ strength, Faramir. Of a different kind.” He clasps Faramir’s face in his hands again, willing him to believe. “It is that differing strength that makes us complete. Whole. Lets us…”

“Lets us complement each other?” Faramir supplies, a hint of a smile appearing. 

Boromir huffs a laugh. “You are the poet, not I.” He wraps his arms around Faramir’s waist again. “Now rest. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

He lets Faramir lay his head on his chest, soothing Faramir with the sound of his heartbeat, proof of his life. Curls his own fingers around Faramir’s wrist, to feel the thrum of his brother’s pulse beneath skin. And when Faramir finally falls asleep, Boromir follows soon after, lulled into slumber by the warmth of Faramir’s arm looped around him and the rhythm of his pulse, safe and steady and strong.

~

It takes the better part of a day to ride back to Minas Tirith, and they have barely passed the first gate upon their return, when one of Faramir’s Rangers rushes toward them, sweat beaded on his brow, his face ashen and sick with horror.

“My Lords,” the Ranger breathes, “the city—Osgiliath—has _fallen_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OST:**  
>  \- Boromir and Faramir’s Reunion: [ Final Fantasy X – To Zanarkand](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-0G_FI61a8)


	5. Return To Minas Tirith

~

Boromir and Faramir share a dark look, before Faramir nods for the Ranger to continue.

“My Lord,” the Ranger says quickly, acknowledging Boromir before turning to his brother again. “Captain Faramir, we—we could not hold Osgiliath. We were outnumbered in the night, when Orcs came from the river. And when the Nazgûl joined the fight upon their fell-beasts at dawn, the battle was truly lost.” He shakes his head, defeated. “I am afraid only a handful of us made it back to the city.”

Faramir’s expression dims instantly, and it pains something in Boromir’s heart to see his brother’s face, so recently flushed with joy, darken thus. “I will speak with the Steward,” Faramir says. He nudges their horse into a canter, as the Ranger nods and takes his leave.

“Faramir,” Boromir starts, trying to loosen his arms from around Faramir’s waist. “If I had not…if you had remained at Osgiliath, to lead your men, they would still be ali—”

“ _No_.” Faramir tightens his hold on Boromir. “It is no fault of yours. If anything, it is mine; only now do I remember that we pulled five hundred from Osgiliath to strengthen our defenses at the river to the north, and that they called not long ago for reinforcements from Henneth Annûn. I should have known the city would not hold, but still, I chose to believe we _could_ hold it. Even just for another day.” He sighs, defeated. “But it seems Mordor’s armies wait for no man.”

There is naught Boromir can say to that. The loss for Faramir must be especially heartrending, for he had regained a brother, but lost his friends and a city in exchange. He lets his arms settle back around Faramir, hoping the gesture will lend Faramir strength and courage in the meeting that is to come. 

When they have stabled Faramir’s horse, they make their way to the Citadel, to the hall of the tower where their father awaits. 

“My _son_!” Denethor cries, as they enter. He spreads his arms wide in greeting, his eyes shining, before circling Boromir’s shoulders with a bone-crushing embrace. “Having brought home the Ring of Power, no doubt!” He looks searchingly at Boromir, like a child greedily seeking a sweet, as if Boromir might have it hidden within the folds of his tunic. “Where is this mighty gift? The weapon that will change our fortunes in this war?”

“The ring is—the ring has—” Boromir tries, before Faramir moves to stand beside him, the motion automatic, instinctual. Presses a hand to the small of Boromir’s back, discreet and reassuring.

“The ring is beyond our reach now,” says Faramir, and for fielding this question for him, for this one small thing, Boromir is immensely grateful, leaning back the minutest distance into Faramir’s touch. 

“Oh? ‘Beyond our reach’, is it?” Denethor says coldly, his pleasant demeanor vanishing as soon as Faramir speaks. “I had hoped the ill rumor that you sent the Ring of Power into Mordor in the hands of a witless Halfling would prove untrue. That your brother might still have brought home this kingly gift.” 

“Father, the fault was mine—” Boromir says, hoping to deflect the blame from Faramir, but Denethor only roars for their silence, and rounds on Faramir again. 

“In fact, I hear tell of something _else_ that is ‘beyond our reach’ now as well. Osgiliath has fallen,” Denethor says pointedly, “ _again_. The garrison there was ambushed in the night.” He glares at Faramir with a fury white-hot and plain. “Were you not entrusted to protect the city? Instead, you abandon your post, and run off on a whim. To chase some witless maiden, no doubt!”

Boromir breathes in softly, careful not to arouse their father’s suspicion. This confirms what he had long suspected: that Faramir had not seen fit to tell their father of Boromir’s near fall at Amon Hen before riding out to meet him, or of his weakness that had only hastened the breaking of the Fellowship. Ever has Faramir hidden Boromir’s shortcomings and made up for them with his own strengths, and Boromir done the same in return.

“It is _your_ folly that allowed our city to be taken,” Denethor continues. “ _Your_ naïveté that robbed Gondor of the ring!” He turns from where he berates Faramir and beams brightly, hands braced on Boromir’s shoulders. “But _you_ , Boromir, you can retake the city! I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought; ride out with your men on the morrow, and reclaim what is ours!”

“But Father, the Orcs have overrun the city,” says Boromir. “Even now, they amass behind its walls!”

Denethor’s good humor fades just as quickly. “Would you deny your own father in this? You have done it before, you can do so again. Take back Osgiliath. Take back what is ours by _right_ , and let the flag of Gondor fly from its spires once more!” He settles in his Steward’s chair of carven stone. “Surely in the absence of bringing Gondor the ring, you are up to such a small task?” He folds his hands over his Steward’s staff, eyeing Boromir steadily, before his gaze, too sharp by some unknown power, falls to Faramir. “Well? Is there no Captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?”

Boromir opens his mouth for grudging acquiescence; he will not let their father bully Faramir into this in his stead, guilt him into taking on this doomed task, but Faramir steps forward first. “I will go in Boromir’s stead,” he says. “Boromir is still recovering from wounds he sustained on his journey, and must take some rest before he—”

“Is your brother to speak for you from now on?” Denethor sneers, turning to Boromir with a cruel twist to his mouth. “I have entrusted this task to _you_ , not Faramir.” He waves them off, dismissive. “Do not trouble me with every hurt and sorrow that ails you. Stop by the Houses, if you must.”

_The Houses of Healing_ , Boromir thinks, releasing a small sigh of relief. His wounds will receive proper treatment there, at least for long enough until he must ride to Osgiliath. 

At the thought of that city, he shudders. Their battles for Osgiliath have met with varied results, each success coupled with failure; the last time, they had kept the western shore at the cost of the east, paid dearly with the lives of Men for the destruction of the last bridge to keep the enemy at bay. 

Faramir seems to have had the same thought during their walk to the healing chambers, as he reaches out to brush his knuckles against Boromir’s. Falls into step beside Boromir, his footfalls just as heavy in the wake of their father’s order. “Together,” he says firmly, quiet. “We will ride out and lead the vanguard together.”

Boromir threads his fingers bravely through Faramir’s. “Together,” he nods. Together, he and his brother are worth ten men—no, a _hundred_ —and if their father wills it, they will see this done.

~

Further reports from Faramir’s Rangers tally the total of Sauron’s army—only that which is gathered at Osgiliath alone—to be at least a hundred and eighty thousand, with more Easterlings and Southrons joining them each day.

“With your Rangers and our soldiers depleted after the last attack on Osgiliath, the most we can spare for this venture is two hundred men.” Boromir shakes his head. “Two hundred, against nearly two hundred _thousand_? Not even with ten thousand men could we retake Osgiliath now. It is folly,” he sighs, sinking back into his chair, dejected. Winces as the new bandages from the healing halls chafe against skin. Chairs in the council room were made more for ceremony and pomp, and not for comfort, it seems.

“We may have enough for a charge with heavy cavalry,” Faramir points out. 

“But not men enough to support us as light cavalry,” Boromir says. “ _And_ we have not the time to gather archers to us. Besides, it would not bode us well to be rushing at the Orcs under the full light of day.” He stands and braces his hands on the table, hair falling over his eyes as he hangs his head. “They will see us coming. Our bodies would litter the fields of Pelennor before we even reached the city. And so, I think—

“—we should set out just before dawn,” Faramir finishes, already nodding. “That they will still be muddled with sleep, or at the least be exposed to the first light of the sun, while we will have the advantage.”

“Except you forget: the Orcs flourish under cover of darkness,” says a voice, dry and unimpressed, from the direction of the great hall. “And the light of the sun has fallen into shadow, a device of Sauron’s making to ease his army’s passage.”

“Gandalf?” Boromir says, his voice filled with wonder and awe at the same time Faramir gasps the wizard’s Elven name. Boromir lopes forward to embrace Gandalf as the wizard steps into the council room. “I thought you had fallen, my friend. At the hands of the Balrog. But here you are, hale and well!”

Gandalf, his hair snow-white and drawn away from his face, leans back from Boromir’s careful, one-armed embrace. “I did,” he laughs, “but that is a story for another time. Now,” Gandalf says, regarding the two of them sternly. “What is this I hear about Osgiliath?”

Faramir’s bright smile at seeing his once-mentor sours instantly. “The Steward has given the order for us to retake the city. In spite of the knowledge that it is overrun.”

“Fool of a Steward!” Gandalf snarls, striking his staff into the ground. “Spending his sons in one fell swoop, especially one so recently returned from death’s door!”

From that, Boromir gathers that Gandalf knows about what transpired at Amon Hen, and he and Faramir share a cautious look. There is nothing of reproach in the wizard’s tone, however; in fact, he seems almost indignant on their behalf. 

“This is a fool’s errand,” Gandalf declares darkly. “There is a time and place to reclaim the lost cities of Gondor, but this is _not it_.”

“What would you have us do instead?” asks Faramir with a sigh. “The Steward’s word is law.”

Gandalf turns his gaze on both of them, but his words are directed toward Faramir. “I have taught you better than that, Faramir—the laws of Men are not the laws of the land! _I_ will speak with the Steward; you would do better to stay and strengthen the forces here at Minas Tirith.”

With that, Gandalf turns from the hall, a whirl of white robes and irritation.

Boromir studies the map they have spread out along the table, of Gondor and its surrounding lands. Picks absently at a corner of the map, the parchment yellowed with age and rumpled from long years of use.

“There is wisdom to Gandalf’s words,” he says finally. “Our father’s will has turned to madness, whether by his dark need for the Ring or by another power, I do not know. But there is no need for us throw away our lives so rashly.” He strokes his jaw, thoughtful. “Perhaps this venture could serve as a token attack. It may not even have to be an attack at all.”

“Oh?” says Faramir. “What are you suggesting?”

“The Rangers function best from the shadows, utilizing stealth; they would be ill-used in a straight charge. We could instead use this as an opportunity to scout the city further. Our numbers until now have been inexact; this would allow us to confirm how many of the enemy are established at Osgiliath, who else is coming, and from where,” Boromir explains. “Then we will withdraw our forces quickly and quietly, and regroup at Minas Tirith. So that we may strike out at the enemy and defend our city from a place of strength.”

“Is there a need to leave Minas Tirith at all?” asks Faramir, doubtful. “Mithrandir said Gondor would be better served if we were to stay and strengthen the city from within.”

Boromir shakes his head. “We must set out for Osgiliath regardless, to appease our father. And when we return, we will tell him we tried but failed to take back the city. He will not know the attempt was a token one at best.” It does not bear saying that an actual attempt would be hopeless also, and result in more losses than their city can bear.

“But Mithrandir said he would speak with—” Faramir tries, and Boromir can see how his brother still clings to hope, still places his trust in his old teacher. He places his palm over Faramir’s hand, warm.

“Faramir,” he says, honest as he has always been with his brother. “You and I both know Father will not rescind his order. Our only hope now is to reduce the number of casualties that we can, to keep men enough for the fight that is sure to come to Minas Tirith. What I need to know now is, are you with me in this?”

Faramir frowns, clearly unhappy at the prospect of losing more Rangers, perhaps even at losing his own life. But he turns his hand, curling his palm up to meet Boromir’s. “I am,” he says softly. “Always.”

Only then does Boromir release a sigh of relief, a breath he had not known he was holding, until he knew his brother was with him in this, utterly and completely.

~

Together, Boromir and Faramir inform the men of the impending mission, notify them of the change that they are not, as first expected, charging into battle, but engaging in reconnaissance. It is an apparent relief, especially to those so recently returned from Osgiliath.

When they have ensured that all the men are aware of the change, and that the weaponry and supplies are ready for the next day’s task, Boromir retires to his room, and Faramir to his. Their unspoken agreement to retire separately and reunite later in the night still stands, however, and on this night, it is Boromir’s turn to go to his brother. 

“Faramir?” he whispers cautiously, as he makes his way into the near-dark of the room. It is unlikely for anyone else to be present, but long years of this have taught Boromir the importance of discretion. Only fools and novice thieves announce their presence boisterously, and he is neither.

Faramir’s response is to tug him into the bed, quiet, shifting until there is space enough for both of them. “I nearly thought you would not come,” Faramir breathes, pinching Boromir’s side lightly in reproach. 

Boromir chuckles into Faramir’s mouth as he winds his arms around Faramir’s waist. “I had to wait for the last of the maids to return to her quarters. You would not believe half the gossip they enjoy twittering about in the late hours.”

When Faramir says nothing in reply, Boromir fears he has fallen asleep. “Faramir?” he says, nudging his brother, once. If Faramir has indeed found slumber, it is well-deserved; he would let his brother rest, for the day has been taxing on them both. It is a surprise, then, when Faramir twines his arms under Boromir’s shoulders, his legs pressing behind Boromir’s knees and wrapping around his calves.

“I do not wish to set out for Osgiliath on the morrow,” Faramir whispers, sudden, fierce.

“We have been through this, Faramir. We must.” Boromir touches their foreheads together, in a bid to reassure his brother.

“No,” says Faramir, emphatic, jerking away from the touch. “ _No_.”

“We _must_. I know the thought of losing even one of your Rangers upsets you,” Boromir tries, “but—”

Faramir releases Boromir’s shoulders, hands curling tight around Boromir’s instead, as he shakes his head. “My Rangers, yes. My friends. But the thought of losing _you_ ,” Faramir whispers, “is what distresses me the most.”

Boromir snorts a laugh. “I can handle myself in battle, if it comes to that. You need not worry.”

“Yes, because you _handled_ yourself so well at Amon Hen,” Faramir says bitterly, before his eyes widen in realization. He leans in to kiss Boromir’s jaw, gentle, in apology. “Boromir, I am sorry. I did not mean to—”

“I was outnumbered,” Boromir replies mulishly. It is all he will say on the matter; Boromir will tell Faramir in time, of the lone Uruk-hai bowman that had laid him low, but it is not now.

“And if we are outnumbered at Osgiliath, as we are sure to be? What then?” Faramir asks, his hands clutching too tight, too worried around Boromir’s, making him wonder if Faramir has indeed had a vision of the next day’s events. “What happens, if for all our stealth, the enemy finds us out and surrounds us? If I am not there to help you, just as I was not there at—”

“Faramir,” Boromir says softly. Draws him in close, until he can wrap his arms fully around Faramir’s waist. The time for panic and trepidation is long past; so, too, is the time for preparation on the battle’s eve, in armaments and strategy. There is only time enough now for tender words, gentler affections, and pleasure, too, if Faramir will allow it. “We have made our plans,” he says, pressing a kiss to Faramir’s cheek, experimental. “We have prepared our strategy.” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let us now turn our minds to other things,” he soothes, as he kisses Faramir on the mouth proper. Pauses, a twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. “Things of a more pleasurable nature.”

“You cannot be serious,” Faramir manages, between Boromir’s presses of lips to his. “I try to speak reason to you, and you try to silence me with— _nngh_ —kisses, of all things!”

“Oh?” Boromir muses, smiling at the little gasps Faramir makes between each meeting of their mouths. “Then I shall cease forthwith.”

Faramir reaches for Boromir’s neck, tugging him forward. “Do not _dare_ ,” he huffs, somewhere between laughter and irritation. 

Boromir takes this as an invitation to surge forward, his hands insatiable in their quest for Faramir’s warmth, for the touch of his skin, as he kisses his way down Faramir’s jaw, along his throat. He urges Faramir out of his tunic as Faramir tugs his off in turn, and _oh_ , that is lovely—the expanse of skin and warmth of Faramir’s body against his—but Boromir has another destination in mind, and he blazes a trail with lips and tongue down Faramir’s chest. Over his belly. Hot, feverish kisses that have Faramir arching against his touch. 

“Boromir?” Faramir says, hesitant, when Boromir starts mouthing at the drawstring of his undergarments. And again, with more conviction, when Boromir tugs them down with his teeth and _off_. “Boromir, _wait_ —”

Boromir pauses in the middle of pressing bruising kisses into Faramir’s thighs, leaving wine-dark marks along them. “All right?” he asks, his voice hoarse, more breathy than usual. They have loved each other with calloused fingers and firm, steady strokes, but never in the manner that Boromir is suggesting now, a pleasure to be gained from lips and tongue, paired with slickened palms and clever fingers. 

Faramir takes a shaky breath. “All right,” he nods, and at this permission, Boromir nuzzles his face into Faramir’s lap. Buries his face into the soft nest of red-gold curls, simply breathing in, enjoying the scent, the musk of his brother, before daring to dart out his tongue and taste. 

When Faramir rakes a hand through Boromir’s hair, fingers tightening within it, Boromir becomes more daring, laving his tongue along Faramir’s sac. Slides his palm along the hardened length as he draws it forth, full and flush and leaking, licking around the head of Faramir’s cock. Touches his tongue to the slit, and at Faramir’s surprised moan, swallows him down, lips closing full around his shaft. 

“Boromir,” Faramir says, his voice strained. “This—this is hardly fair.”

“Mmnh,” hums Boromir, and at Faramir’s choked groan, he huffs a laugh. “Fair, no. Indecent? _Yes_.” He lifts his head to look into Faramir’s eyes, the sea-blue of his brother’s eyes nearly annexed by black. “Well? Do you feel pleasure from such indecency?” he asks cheekily.

“I will show you _indecency_ ,” Faramir growls, shifting forcibly until Boromir is on his hands and knees above him, taking Boromir into his mouth as Boromir has done him. He flicks his tongue into the delicate hood of Boromir’s cock. Steadies Boromir’s hips with his hands, his fingers pressed into skin, firm and unyielding. 

_Faramir_ , Boromir thinks to gasp, urgent, hushed, but Faramir nudges his length against Boromir’s mouth, and Boromir busies himself with pleasuring his brother in turn, nosing at his cock, gentle. Presses darting licks to the tip, the shaft, before letting it slide deep into his mouth. Lets it press against the back of his throat, before drawing it back out to tease the head again, a motion he repeats, until with a muffled cry from Faramir below, he tastes the burst of Faramir’s essence on his tongue, of tang and salt and warmth. Drinks each drop down, eager, greedy, until Faramir is shaking in his grip, panting, breathless. 

“Boromir,” Faramir gasps tightly, his voice wet. He redoubles efforts on his end, cupping Boromir’s sac as he swirls his tongue over it. Forms a ring with his fingers as he slides Boromir’s length deep into his throat and out, again and again until Boromir is left scrabbling at Faramir’s thighs for purchase, clawing nails into the sheets, his teeth gritted as Faramir licks and tugs and strokes. It is only when Faramir presses a finger slyly against his hole, pressing up and nearly _in_ , that Boromir jerks forward, breath catching harsh in his throat in a wordless cry, his body shaking hard as he spills into Faramir’s waiting mouth. 

With a soft, satisfied noise, Faramir crawls back into the circle of Boromir’s arms. Nudges into the space meant only for him, as he kisses Boromir again, neither hungry nor sensual this time, but gentle brushes of lips against brow and cheeks and mouth. 

Boromir chuckles at these softer touches. Licks boldly into Faramir’s mouth, tasting himself on Faramir’s lips, before Faramir matches his affections, chasing the flavour of his own essence into Boromir’s. 

“If that was a taste of your indecency, perhaps you should next show me _debauchery_ ,” says Boromir, sleepy, sated. 

“I may well do that,” agrees Faramir, and there is a smile in his voice that Boromir feels against his lips as much as he hears. Makes him nuzzle closer into his brother’s arms. 

As he watches Faramir’s eyes flutter closed, Boromir’s heart aches at the sight of their hair fanned out together on the pillow, his honey-blond mingling with Faramir’s autumn-gold. The thought occurs to him then, that if all goes wrong tomorrow, if there _is_ no next time, at least they will have had this. 

He twines himself tighter into Faramir’s arms, where he finds a quiet, if fitful slumber. 

At least they will have had this.

~

They wait for word from Gandalf, regarding the original strategy of staying at Minas Tirith and strengthening the city’s defenses from within. Trust in him to sway their father’s decision, giving the wizard the benefit of the doubt.

When the hour before dawn comes, however, there is neither sign of Gandalf nor a retraction of the Steward’s orders; clearly, talks have failed. With a heavy heart and Faramir’s assistance, Boromir quickly musters a contingent of Rangers to set out for Osgiliath.

He studies the lay of the land before they set out, realizing that Gandalf had indeed spoken true: from the direction of Mordor, an unnatural gloom steals its way across the sky, veiling even the brightest of stars. Boromir shivers at the implications of such a darkness and pulls his cloak tighter about himself against the twilight chill, grateful now for its extra lining of fur; he had placed his Elven cloak into the storage of his room, along with the belt of golden leaves, both gifts from Galadriel too much of a reminder of his time with the Fellowship. Had decided instead to trade the utility of the forest-green cloak for the warmth of his old one, feeling unworthy of the Elves’ gift.

Faramir presses fingers, warm, to Boromir’s waist, a distraction from his nebulous thoughts. Soothes a circle into the small of his back, the motion carefully discreet but affectionate. He raises his eyebrows as if to ask, _Ready?_

Boromir nods in response, and together, they signal the contingent of Rangers they have gathered, snaking their way quietly through the tall grasses. There is nothing stirring the air, save for the sound of the wind, whispering dry through the grass and curling whisper-soft around their boots. With the sun yet to appear in the sky, perhaps their fewer numbers will have an advantage. 

They arrive on the outskirts of Osgiliath with time enough to take advantage of the darkness, the numerous Rangers taking cover in shadows and crevices both. A quick survey of the city’s battered ruins diminishes Boromir’s fears that Sauron’s army would be lying in wait for them, this tiny rebel group of Men from Minas Tirith; it appears they are completely unworried by _any_ defiant force from Gondor, and are instead, busy preparing for the battle ahead, working their makeshift forges and setting blades to whetstones. Those Orcs who slave at neither engage in loose sparring matches amongst themselves, or squabble over dice games to while away the time.

Boromir signals for Faramir and their men to advance; it is nearly too easy, with the Orcs distracted in such a manner. Faramir and the Rangers quietly assassinate the outliers in Sauron’s army, those who had been alone and away from the group, who might alert the others to their presence, slitting throats with concealed daggers and laying their bodies away from where they fell. Boromir counts Haradrim, Easterlings and Orcs among the corpses, his apprehension growing at this confirmation of the Rangers’ intelligence; Sauron’s army is indeed varied and strong, if he can count these groups among his allies. 

Both Boromir and Faramir advance enough to see the tops of siege towers and what appear to be rudimentary battering rams, before doubling back behind a broken pillar. 

“Should we scout deeper into the city?” Boromir asks, looking to his brother. “Perhaps we could find out what other weapons the enemy will use against us.”

With a frown, Faramir shakes his head. “Have we not already seen the state of Sauron’s armies? What advantage would there be in scouting further? We should leave while our way back is still clear.” When Boromir furrows his brow, Faramir whispers reassuringly, “Whichever decision you make, know that I am with you.”

Boromir nods, encouraged. “We will go back,” he says, having considered his brother’s reasoning and found it sound.

Faramir palms the hilt of his sword, cautious, while pressing his other hand to the small of Boromir’s back, protective, and they step out from beneath the pillar’s shadow for all but a moment to signal the men to turn back. 

Right into the line of sight of an Orc lookout, stationed high upon a crumbling bell tower. 

Faramir nocks an arrow before Boromir can alert him to the Orc, letting his arrow fly. Its flight is swift and true, striking its mark between the eyes in an instant, but it is too late; the Orc, in its death throes, tangles a vindictive hand around the pull of the bell, and the loud, heavy chime of the bell rings out across the city, alerting Osgiliath’s new inhabitants to their presence.

An unnatural quiet follows the dying echoes of the bell, but before long, a rush of scuttling follows, Orcs swarming out from behind crumbled battlements and half-collapsed stairways, not unlike a startled ant colony, to surround them. Faramir had been right: that they were hopelessly outnumbered, even here on the edges of Osgiliath. That there had been _hordes_ of Sauron’s army hidden deeper in the city, shaping their crude blades and towers, battering rams to break down Gondor’s already feeble defenses, and who knew what else. 

They are no longer safe now, no longer unseen.

Boromir’s hand finds Faramir’s in the chaos for all but a second—if they must fight, he would fight with his brother by his side—before they are both drawing swords, fighting for their lives and for those under their command. 

“ _Fall back_!” Boromir roars over the rattling war cries of the Orcs. “Fall back to Minas Tirith!” He fights off the oncoming Orcs, herding Faramir and his Rangers onward behind him, hoping to let them escape first, that they would not waste any life in this venture.

The Rangers, for their part, dispatch Orcs and the now advancing Haradrim with arrow after arrow as they fight their way back toward Minas Tirith, drawing as near to the border where they entered as they can.

The way appears nearly clear when the air is rent by the scalding scream of a Nazgûl, the beat of its fell-beast’s wings heavy, foul, a violent gale forcing them back and away from Minas Tirith. 

“ _Faramir_!” Boromir calls, and knowing his request, Faramir lets fly an arrow at the fell-beast’s throat, lifting the shadow from overhead in an instant. 

From afar, Boromir spies Gandalf making his way across the fields atop his shining steed, his staff held high as a light, pure and white, emanates from it, arcing toward the Nazgûl and its fell-beast in a wide beam. Fends them off from the escaping Rangers. He breathes a small sigh of relief; as long as the Rangers make it to the borders of Osgiliath, they will be safe. With that thought, he turns, searching for Faramir in the chaos. 

Panic seizes him; Faramir had been at his back only moments ago, but is now nowhere to be seen. Had he followed his men to safety, retreating from Osgiliath? Or had he been trapped among the ruins, still fighting, or worse, still looking for _Boromir_?

A quick glance at his surroundings shows Faramir fighting off an Orc with his sword, sparing just enough time to fling a dagger in Boromir’s direction, felling an Orc just behind him. Boromir grunts, grateful, and just as Faramir slays the Orc he was fighting, Boromir calls for him. Thinks to tell him to fall back; that they must retreat, _now_ , especially while his old mentor has shielded them from the worst of the Nazgûl’s fury. He turns, for just a moment, to see that Gandalf has turned back towards Minas Tirith, but this cannot be right, he is leaving _without_ them—

—and Faramir, when he turns back— _Faramir_ , distracted by Boromir’s call for all of a heartbeat, is instantly struck by arrows from an Orc sniper.

“ _No_!” Boromir cries. He leaps over fallen Orcs and stone ruins, dashing toward Faramir’s fallen form, his heart in his throat. If only he had kept silent, or been close enough to shield Faramir from the arrows! As it is, he grips his sword tightly mid-run, ready to defend his brother if need be. To buy time, in the hopes that Gandalf might still return and ensure Faramir’s escape from the city.

His cry seems to have drawn the attention of lesser Orcs nearby, however, and one of them seizes its opportunity in Boromir’s distraction, leaping out to club him across the back of the head, the blow studded, brutal and sharp. 

Boromir registers a dull throbbing, and a tacky wetness, one that trails down the back of his head and mats his hair with blood, before darkness takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _“…they had kept the western shore at the cost of the east, paid dearly with the lives of Men for the destruction of the last bridge to keep the enemy at bay”._ Refers to Sauron’s previous attack on Osgiliath, in which Boromir and Faramir had to cast down the bridge connecting Western and Eastern Osgiliath, to prevent Sauron’s forces from advancing—and only they and two other Men survived.
> 
> \- Scene of Boromir and Faramir fighting by each other’s side at Osgiliath inspired by [_Blood of Numenor_](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/Blood%20of%20Numenor_MagaliVilleneuve.jpg~original) by Magali Villeneuve.
> 
> **OST:**  
>  \- The Battle at Osgiliath: [ Sword and Council – Brian Tyler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WDbkYz5wKE)


	6. Occultation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Lord of Mordor brings the battle to Minas Tirith, and with it, an unexpected ally.

~

The first thing Boromir remembers when he blinks back into a wakeful daze, is the sight of Faramir crumpling before him, pierced through with arrows.

That he should survive his injuries at Amon Hen but Faramir be felled by arrows in turn is an irony too bitter to bear, and it takes all that Boromir has to lie stock-still and observe his surroundings first, instead of searching for Faramir in a frenzied panic.

Of the Orcs that had swarmed their company earlier, many have returned to their prior tasks, either working the forges, sharpening their blades, or constructing their machines of war. He searches the ground around him discreetly, spotting several of the Rangers he had come with lying where they had fallen. 

His brother is not among them.

Hope springs anew in Boromir’s heart, like a hardy mountain flower pushing between cracks of even the most barren rock; _Faramir must have gotten away_ , he decides. _He must still live!_

Boromir spares a moment to wonder why he himself is still alive, but credits the outcropping of rock that had collapsed on him when he lost consciousness, littering him with ash and rubble, obscuring him from the Orcs’ sight. That, or the Orcs were so assured of their resounding victory that they did not stop to check if Boromir was dead.

He takes advantage of the Orcs’ distraction to snake across the dusty ground. Scrounges pieces of Orc armour from their dead, while those alive busy themselves amassing armaments to march against Minas Tirith, and dons the armour quickly, to hide among their number. 

Boromir knows subtlety and subterfuge now, and he will have need of both if he is to see his brother and his city again. 

Picking his way across fallen battlements and clouds of mortar dust, he harvests more Orc armour, grabbing a helm here, trading a rusted cuirass there, until he is no longer recognizable as a Captain of Gondor, resplendent in a fur cloak and embroidered crimson tunic but as a solid, broadly built Orc with less-than-grimy skin. He is well-blended within the enemy colors now, camouflaged with the Orcs’ dull plate-scale armour and their crude blades.

In his search for armour, Boromir stumbles upon Madril’s body, his eyes wide even in death, his thinning grey hair matted with blood. The spear impaled through his chest has been left standing, as if a testament to the Orcs’ might, and the dawn of their age. Boromir spares a moment to say a silent prayer for Faramir’s second-in-command, lamenting the loss of friend and soldier both. Gondor had lost a good man in his passing; she would have need of each one before the end.

A self-assured voice detailing battle plans captures Boromir’s attention, and he sneaks closer, hoping to eavesdrop on their strategy.

“—plan is to lay siege to Minas Tirith,” Boromir overhears from behind a half-formed wall. “We’ll take out their gates with Grond, and get over their high walls to lay waste to their armies with our siege towers.”

Boromir creeps ever closer; an Orc who he assumes to be their leader, a deformed bulbous thing with a lame left hand, is issuing orders to those under his command. 

“Anyone left alive will be taken out by our catapults or be crushed by their own debris.” The Orc nods, sanctimonious. “The age of Men is over,” he declares. “The time of the Orc has _come_!” 

Boromir doubles back behind the wall, his heart drumming so wildly in his chest, he fears it can be heard even amid the loud cheers and stamping of the Orcs nearby. He barely manages to make out their further plans among the din: that the endless hordes of Orcs will be followed closely by legions of the Haradrim aboard their fearsome mûmakil, the Corsairs with their stealthy ships, and the Nazgûl upon their fell-beasts. 

Against this force, Minas Tirith will be _razed to the ground_. 

_The city must be warned!_ Boromir thinks, horrified. Minas Tirith cannot stand against this army amassing on all sides, its own armies depleted and disheartened so. 

He moves with measured stealth, back through the makeshift camps set up in the city, and commandeers a warg, planning to ride out to Minas Tirith in the guise of an Orc scout. But as he reaches the outer limits of the city, an Orc wearing the skull of either its enemy or its brethren—it is hard to tell, with these befouled creatures—as a helmet calls him back. 

“’Oy! Where’re ye’ going?” the Orc asks, grabbing a handful of the warg’s fur to halt it. 

The warg growls in displeasure, snapping at the Orc with teeth razor-sharp and wet. Boromir hides his laugh behind a cough when the Orc snatches his hand back to avoid having it bitten off; he is starting to grow fond of this warg already, and he scratches a hand through the burnt-umber fur of its head. Stifles a smile when the warg chuffs at him, affectionate, like an overgrown dog.

“Goin’ to scout the city we’re to attack,” Boromir replies gruffly.

The Orc laughs, his voice cruel, grating like loose gravel. “We got all the ‘telligence we need on the city,” he says. “Get ta’ work on loading the catapults instead, ye’ lazy scum. Or check that the siege towers’ll hold ‘til we get close to the city. There’s work here needs doin’!” He kicks at the warg’s rump as Boromir turns to go, and Boromir feels a dark satisfaction when the warg snaps teeth too close to the Orc’s face for comfort.

Boromir grudgingly tethers the warg where he found it, petting it, regretful, as it noses questioningly at his hand. “Another time, perhaps,” he offers. It is a platitude; he knows not whether either of them will survive this war. 

As soon as Boromir returns to the camp the Orc directed him towards, he does not load the catapults as instructed, but silently sabotages them instead, loosening bolts under the guise of tightening them, fraying the ropes where he can. He does the same with the battering rams, hoping these changes, however small, will somehow turn the tide of the war. 

When he happens upon the siege towers, however, Boromir strokes his jaw, thoughtful, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. This may well be his only recourse; any further attempts to escape Osgiliath would be suspect. 

Just as he is evaluating his options, the blare of war horns sounds over the city, dark and resonant, the baleful noise signalling their march. Boromir scrambles to join the Orcs’ ranks, quickening his steps to match those around him, their footfalls heavy, menacing, meant to strike terror into the hearts of Men.

Boromir suppresses a shudder of his own—he can only hope now that his brother is safe behind the city walls, that the intelligence gained in their mission will prepare the city for what is to come, and that Gandalf has a _plan_ , against the army over two hundred thousand-strong, that Mordor will soon bring to Minas Tirith’s gates, each of their number merciless, savage and cruel.

~

The march to Minas Tirith is miserable and the pace brutal—made all the more so by a hulking Orc taskmaster, waiting in the wings to flog those who fall behind with a barbed whip. Only the thought of Faramir drives Boromir onward now, keeping him on his feet and propelling him on in this farce.

The armies soon arrive in front of the city, and when the screeching cry of “Catapults!” is heard, Boromir is jostled into helping load them. He does so with a sick horror, finding that the initial projectiles are none other than the heads of his fallen comrades, in varying states of decay. Closes his eyes and swallows, hard, to quell the wave of revulsion that rises from his stomach. 

_These are Orc heads_ , Boromir tells himself. _Orcs that were felled in Osgiliath to keep the presence of our company secret._

Soon, volleys of arrows rain down from the city in response, followed by chunks of debris from Minas Tirith’s own parapets.

Boromir dodges the volley of arrows coming from the city above, taking cover behind the siege towers and the bands of Orcs rushing ahead of him, eager for a chance at the fight. He must make his way into Minas Tirith, and with haste, but _how_?

For a moment he considers joining the ranks of those Orcs at the battering rams, but gambles instead on one of the siege towers making it through the fields intact; though they stand a higher chance of being shattered by the city’s own trebuchets, the siege towers would provide access to the city more quickly, which is just what Boromir needs. 

When his unit is a distance close enough to the city’s walls, Boromir shoulders his way through the other Orcs, climbing into one of the troll-driven siege towers yet unbroken. Hoists himself up, rung over rung, the coarse wood tearing and scraping at his hands. Never has he been more grateful for the clawed Orc gauntlets he had stolen from one of their dead than now.

He bullies his way through the tower, ignoring reedy cries of “’Ey!” and “Watch where yer’ goin’!” until he makes it to the top. At the unsteady sway of the tower, Boromir thinks to remake his decision, to return to safer ground and join the battering rams, but it is too late; he has thrown his lot in with the tower, and already the leader at the front is slamming down the gangplank to the upper walls.

They have breached the city, and the Orcs around him bellow as if victory is already theirs.

Boromir lets the Orcs hurrying ahead of him on the gangplank take the brunt of the counterattack, and the moment he feels the familiar flagstones of Minas Tirith beneath his feet again, he strips off his Orc helmet, turning on the ones he came up with, vicious.  
Undoes a Gondorian cuirass, dented, from one of the fallen when there is a lull in the attack, and flings the Orc one away, shoving the new one on hastily and fastening the catches when he can.

He is slipping his hands back into the Orc gauntlets when he spots a cluster of soldiers gaping at him. “To _me_!” Boromir shouts, rallying the men toward him. Several of them are so grateful to see him, grateful for his guidance in this chaos that they nearly fall to their knees. “To _me_!” he shouts again above the din. 

“To Captain Boromir!” they cry, heartened, passing on the message. 

Once Boromir has gathered a sizeable number of soldiers, he mobilizes the small battalion to hold the Great Gate against the enormous wolf’s-head battering ram that threatens to charge through. They cannot man both gates and walls at the same time, and Boromir has seen enough to trust in Gandalf to lead the defense at the walls.

“Ready!” shouts Boromir, over the deafening chant of _Grond, Grond, Grond_ from outside. “Steady!”

A group of soldiers stands staunchly, their spears aimed toward the gate, a line of archers behind them. Boromir’s keen eye does not miss their trembling.

“You are warriors of _Gondor_ ,” Boromir declares, his voice finding volume as he remembers Aragorn’s rallying words, words that had wrenched him back into the world of the living, had given him purpose. “You are warriors of Gondor, and no matter what comes through that gate, you _will_ stand your ground!”

Boromir nearly falters when the flaming wolf’s head breaks through the last of Minas Tirith’s main gate and armoured _trolls_ burst through as the vanguard. But he gathers enough wits about him to shout, “Volley!” for a cascade of arrows from the archers. 

The arrows deter the trolls for all of a few seconds before they swing their maces and dispatch most of the spearmen in the frontline in one go. 

“ _For Gondor_!” Boromir shouts in defiance, his sword held high as he dashes toward the nearest troll. His sword arcs through the air, forceful flashes of steel that rend and gouge until the troll crumples to the ground, its torso a mess of ichor and broken flesh.

Finding their courage in the presence of their Captain and following his example, the remaining soldiers charge into the fray, hacking and slashing at the trolls that had burst through. 

“ _For Gondor_!” Boromir cries again, and those that had followed him, who knew the taste of victory in West Osgiliath not so long ago, join him in his war cry, hungering not only for survival, but victory also, even in the face of the Orcs rushing into the city. Even in the face of trolls smashing apart both men and the city with each swing of their maces. 

They kill what Orcs they can, weaken the trolls where they are able, and continue fighting this way until finally, even Boromir must admit that the first level of the city is overrun. That they must retreat to the next level or risk certain death. 

“Fall back!” Boromir urges. “Fall back to the second level!” He notices the lack of women and children in the part of the city they have retreated to, and spares a moment to be thankful for Gandalf’s preemptive evacuation efforts.

When at last the soldiers still left have gathered safely behind the gate of the city’s second level, there is a momentary lull—a chance of respite in the battle in which Boromir strains to think of strategies to hold this gate against the onslaught of Orcs sure to come. 

“Captain Boromir!” shouts a voice, surprised and all kinds of relieved.

“Rýndaer?” Boromir calls, heartened. He knows not how Rýndaer, a captain stationed usually in the city’s fifth circle, survived the catapult and Nazgûl attacks, but clasps his shoulders in camaraderie, grateful for this miracle.

“We thought you had fallen in Osgiliath,” Rýndaer says in a breathy rush, wiping a mess of grime and blood from his brow. “The foolhardy Rangers who turned back for Captain Faramir said they could not find your body—with good reason, I now see!” Rýndaer beams. “This is good news, indeed! You must let Lord Denethor know immediately; he was told Osgiliath had fallen, that both his sons were—”

“Wait, never mind that; what of Faramir?” Boromir asks desperately. “Have you seen him?” He grips the soldier by the shoulders, nearly shaking Rýndaer in his panic. “Have you seen my brother?”

“Ah—yes, I—Lord Denethor has taken to him to the Houses,” Rýndaer says, suddenly quiet.

“Oh, of Healing,” sighs Boromir, sagging against the soldier in relief. He _knew_ Faramir could not have fallen so easily, knew it in his heart.

Rýndaer brings his arms up to steady Boromir’s shoulders, oddly gentle. “No,” he says, shaking his head, solemn, “the Houses of the Dead.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I hear that Lord Denethor and the pallbearers traversed Rath Dínen not long ago, bearing Lord Faramir’s body.”

 _No_. In an instant, Boromir feels as if the breath has been wrung from his lungs, robbing him of air, and he deflates, crumpling against Rýndaer for support. _Not Faramir—it cannot be_. 

From Rýndaer’s report, they must be taking his brother’s body to be interred with the kings and stewards of old. Something in Boromir’s chest shatters at the thought, a keen blow that slips through the cracks of his cuirass and strikes at his heart, but he has not time enough to sink to his knees, to grieve for his brother properly. 

A deeper, darker part of him churns with guilt; tells him that in return for his life being spared at Amon Hen, Faramir’s was taken in exchange.

“Captain Boromir?” Rýndaer tries, hesitant, and it is only then Boromir realizes he has been saying his litany of _No, no, no_ aloud. He looks up, forlorn, his fingers still clutching Rýndaer’s shoulders, useless. Stares unseeing, as Rýndaer offers him empty platitudes, the ones Boromir himself has offered to the wives of his soldiers, widowed too soon from the war.

 _My condolences_ , he remembers saying. _I am sorry for your loss_.

But no matter the number of condolences or apologies, they could not bring back the dead. Could not bring the light back into their eyes. And the thought of Faramir, interred in stone, his lightless gaze forever turned to his lidded tomb, nearly cripples Boromir.

Numbs him until he is rooted firmly in place, clinging to Rýndaer, wordless, hopeless. 

Never would Faramir take in the wondrous beauty of Rivendell, with its gently cascading falls and elegant architecture, or the radiance of Caras Galadhon—even the majestic Argonath that marked the border of their home, all of them sights Faramir had long wished for. Vistas Boromir had promised they would visit together, after. 

There would be no _after_ , now. No _together_. The notion of a life without his brother buckles Boromir’s knees from beneath him, and a crushing pain seizes his chest, leaving an aching hollow where his heart once was.

“Gandalf!” A familiar voice, thin and terror-stricken, shakes him from his stupor. “ _Gandalf_!”

Boromir first spots Gandalf—who must have ridden down from the higher circles during the lull, to check the strength of their second circle’s gate—then _Pippin_ , alive and well, dressed puzzlingly in Gondor’s colors, dashing this way and that to duck past the trampling hooves of rearing horses and slipping nearly unseen past the soldiers. Boromir has not the time for a greeting when the scattering of Orcs from higher in the city might continue their onslaught any moment, but he thinks to reach Pippin somehow, to herd the tiny Halfling behind him and protect him, until he hears Pippin shout the words _Faramir_ and _burning him alive_ to Gandalf, as he finds Gandalf in the fray. Sees Gandalf tug Pippin onto his horse and gallop off toward the higher circles of the city. 

_Alive!_ Boromir registers suddenly, stunned. He leaps to his feet in an instant, heart pounding double time in his chest. But the gate, he must hold it—

“Go!” Rýndaer says, eyes wide at the realization. He pushes Boromir in the direction of the city’s higher levels. “I will lead the troops gathered here in your stead. _Go!_ ”

Spurred by his encouragement, Boromir charges his way forward through the trail leading to the Houses of the Dead. One Orc, then another, thinks to waylay him on his hurried course, but Boromir drives them from his path with a roar, cleaving heads from shoulders, limbs from torsos, one after another, brutal. Seizes a riderless horse to hasten his flight to Faramir.

 _Please_ , Boromir begs, racing through level after level of the city, as if the whole legion of Nazgûl dogs his heels. He does not know what he pleads with the Valar for first—that he is not too late, that Faramir still lives, that their father might come to his senses and cease this nonsense—only knows that he must see his brother, safe and alive or no.

When he reaches the House of the Stewards, Boromir finds the great doors slightly ajar and throws them open, groaning with the effort, stumbling into the chamber in time to see a makeshift pyre alight with fire, the flames roaring at oil-soaked wood. He makes out Pippin’s small form in the fire, struggling to roll Faramir off the pyre, and races over himself to help. Forcibly _wrenches_ Faramir from the fire, despite the gruesome pain that lances through his barely-healed shoulder.

“Faramir,” Boromir gasps, his voice hoarse, desperate. He and Pippin hurry to beat the flames from Faramir’s finery, before there are talons set at his shoulders, tearing Pippin away and wrenching Boromir from his brother’s side.

“You will not take _my son_ from me!” Denethor howls, wrestling with Pippin, shaking him, clawing him, as if the Halfling who would not bend to his madness was an obstacle to destroy, to ruin.

“Father!” Boromir snaps. He thinks to throw himself against his father, just as Gandalf’s horse rears up and knocks Denethor into the fire. 

“My son?” Denethor says, hesitant, from within the flames. “ _My son!_ ” he cries again, jubilant. “Boromir, Faramir—” 

Boromir spares a moment to be glad their father sees his sons alive, before leaving him to his own devices; surely he will leap out of the flames of his own accord. For now, Boromir must tend to his brother. 

That plan changes quickly when Denethor begins screaming, bolting out the doors with his clothes aflame. 

Boromir thinks to race after Denethor, to wrestle him to the ground and beat the flames from his body because his father is _on fire_ but instead sinks to his knees by Faramir’s side, his body arranging his priorities for him. 

“Faramir?” he whispers. “Faramir, love, _please_.” Boromir listens desperately at his chest for a heartbeat, and upon finding a weak but steady rhythm, fumbles for his brother’s hand, holding it tight, as if the force with which he clasps it will bring him around. He barely registers his slip in his address of Faramir, because his brother lies unmoving, barely breathing, proper forms of address be damned.

It is just as well that Gandalf elbows him out of the way, laying a hand across Faramir’s brow. He whispers old words, ancient and fey and imbued with power, and within the span of a heartbeat— _two_ —Faramir crinkles his brow, the motion long-familiar and endearing to Boromir. Blinks up at them, his gaze distant and unfocused.

“Faramir,” Boromir breathes in relief. He clasps Faramir’s face in his hands, thinking to kiss him, to pepper his nose and cheeks and brow with kisses soft and light, thankful for Faramir’s life, before remembering himself in the wizard’s presence. Makes the concession to lay a kiss to Faramir’s brow, gentle, then another and another—

“ _Boromir_ ,” Faramir gasps, eyes flying wide as he clutches at Boromir’s forearms. The effort of it must strain his injury, as he winces, but his grip is no less desperate for it. “I thought you lost to me, I saw you _fall_ —”

Boromir shakes his head, a bubble of relieved laughter welling up inside him. “I took a blow,” he says, cradling Faramir’s upper body, careful. “But it was not so grievous a wound that I could not make my way back to the city.”

“How _did_ you make your way back?” Faramir asks. “The Orcs…” He tries to rise, but his knees buckle beneath him, and Boromir catches him before he slides to the ground. He hefts Faramir’s arm over his shoulder, holds him steady around the waist. It is all he will allow himself to do in front of Gandalf’s keen gaze. 

“I shall regale you with the story another time,” Boromir says, as he half-carries, half-tows his brother toward the healing chambers. “For now, though, you must have proper care. And rest. And someone to see to your wounds.”

He stays just long enough to see Faramir settled in a small cot within the healing halls before turning to go. “Rest now, Faramir,” says Boromir. He brushes a dry wisp of a kiss to his brother’s brow. “I would stay longer, but I must join the men in holding the inner defenses of the city.”

Faramir catches his forearm, his grip bruisingly tight. “Stay safe, brother,” he says. “And return to me. _Alive_.”

“Faramir, I—” Boromir tries, already shaking his head; he cannot promise that. And because no one is watching them, too busy tending to the wounded or engaged in the battle outside, he presses his lips to Faramir’s, once, hard, before tearing himself away. It is all the promise he can offer for now.

Faramir drags him back by the shoulders for another kiss, heated, _searing_ , and just as Boromir makes to move away, he bites Boromir at the base of his throat, marking him.

“Come back before this fades,” Faramir demands. His fingers wind tight in Boromir’s hair, as if the pressure of them can wrest the promise he needs from Boromir. “Come _back to me_.” His voice is pitched low, forceful, the weight of it showing that this is no mere request, but a _command_.

Boromir nods, his heart in his throat; with this, Faramir has marked him, has made Boromir _his_. He swallows hard, glad for the moment of respite the old wizard has given them, having tarried by the entrance with Pippin, but when he turns to leave, Gandalf is _right there_. 

For one awful, panicked moment, Boromir thinks they have been caught out; he watches as Gandalf’s hollow-eyed gaze sweeps over Faramir’s flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. The way it settles on the bruise forming at the base of Boromir’s throat, a damning rose-colored mark, half-hidden by his tunic.

Gandalf sighs and murmurs something inaudible, before gesturing impatiently with his staff. “Come along, then,” he says to Boromir sternly. “Time is not our ally in this war.” At Boromir’s hesitation to leave his brother’s side, Gandalf’s voice gentles for all but a moment. “There will be time for affections and softer emotions later. But right now, your city _needs you_.” 

He stalks away then, his white cloak stained grey with travel and wear billowing behind him. Pippin, for his part, tips a bright nod in the brothers’ direction before hurrying after him. 

Gandalf is right; there will be time enough later for affections, reunions, and mourning, but it is not this time.

Both brothers breathe a sigh of relief when Gandalf is out of sight. Neither of them are fool enough to believe the wizard did not see, but whether he keeps his silence out of an old fondness for Faramir, his once-pupil, or sees no reason to disclose their indiscretion due to indifference, the fact remains that Minas Tirith needs him, needs Boromir to rally its disheartened troops and hold the city against the enemy army. 

Boromir squeezes Faramir’s hand once, quick, and turns toward the direction Gandalf left in. As he makes his way out to the battlements, his fingers light on the bruise Faramir has left him, and he presses the mark for encouragement, a strange sense of boldness overtaking him; Faramir has given him a decree—to return before the bruise fades—and he intends to honor that, but first Boromir has a city, a home, and precious lives to defend.

~

Having grown ever hopeful since learning of Pippin’s feat of lighting the first beacon of Gondor, Boromir is immensely glad to find that Rohan, their old allies, have answered their call for aid.

His joy is short-lived, however, when Rohan’s arrival—heralded by the rich, golden tones of war horns bold and clear—is followed by the Haradrim, rampaging through Rohan’s ranks with their mûmakil. Their spiked tusks and wide feet trample through the army of Horse-lords as if they were but mere insects, cutting a swathe through their brave lines. 

Then there is no time at all to watch the rest of the battle, as Orcs attempt to charge through the gate Boromir has returned to guard. They try first with their faulty battering rams, confused when the logs tumble clumsily out of their ropes, then enlist in the aid of trolls, tittering as the trolls slam their heavy maces against the wooden gate, splintering it.

Boromir braces himself for another wave of trolls, widening his stance. He knows not how many more of them he and his men can take on, how many more circles of the city they will have to abandon in the effort to protect it. But he squares his shoulders and steels his jaw all the same.

 _The future of Gondor is up there_ , he thinks, remembering how the women and children had been herded to safety in the upper levels of the city. _And Faramir as well. I cannot let them break through!_

As the last of the gate shatters beneath the heavy blows of maces, Boromir takes up the cry, “ _Fight!_ Fight for your lives! For your family’s lives!” just in time to see a horde of dead men, a strange, unearthly ghost-army, swarm over the Orcs and trolls. 

“For the King!” he makes out from their hoarse rattles, as they leave Orc and troll corpses in their wake. “For the King of Gondor, and our honour!”

 _Aragorn!_ Boromir remembers, his spirits lifted. Aragorn had come through after all; had remembered his promise not to let the White City fall, and with this new encouragement, would not let her people fail. 

With this thought, Boromir charges into the fray, his hope renewed, cutting down what he can of the enemy. Inspires, with his actions, what hope he can in his own men.

“For Gondor!” Boromir roars between kills, heaving his sword into the air, high, ichor staining his weapon and armor both. He finds himself immensely cheered when his soldiers, his _people_ , take up the cry as their own. 

_For Gondor!_

~

It is a long and hard-fought battle, but by the end of it, when hundreds of Mordor’s forces lie dead within the city and thousands more on the fields of Pelennor, Boromir picks his way back through fallen soldiers and foul Orc corpses. Makes his way through circle after arduous circle of the city, favouring his right leg too heavily, to stagger into the Houses of Healing—only to find Faramir stumbling his way out to greet him, his hands white-knuckled as they clutch the wall for support.

“You should not be out here,” Boromir says, reproachful, but that Faramir would search for him, would worry for him immediately after the battle, warms his heart, and he opens his arms wide for an embrace.

Faramir pushes him into a darkened corner instead, kissing him again and again, his hands finding their way under Boromir’s armor, under his tunic, to touch, to test, to confirm he is unhurt. “Boromir,” he whispers, his hands wandering higher, warm and lovely as they press against Boromir’s belly, his ribs. “ _Boromir_.”

“The battle is over,” Boromir manages, between urgent, breathy kisses. “The city—the city is safe.” 

“And you?” whispers Faramir. His hands wander over Boromir’s shoulders, checking his arms and torso, patting his waist. They are not the carnal caresses of a lover but touches of concern and worry. “Are you hurt?”

Boromir lifts one of Faramir’s hands to his lips, brushing a kiss over roughened knuckles, to reassure. “Nothing time will not heal.” He will have a healer see to his leg later, and the wound in his shoulder that he suspects has reopened, but only after he and his brother have had a moment’s peace to themselves.

Finally assured of his well-being, Faramir notices the few pieces of blood-spattered Orc armor layered beneath Boromir’s Gondorian armor, pulled on hastily during the battle. 

“Mmh, clever,” Faramir smiles. “I _see_ how you came back from Osgiliath. Perhaps I should reward your ingenuity with another—” His mouth twists with a moue of disappointment as he tugs Boromir’s tunic down at the neck. “ _Well_. If nothing else, it appears time has healed the mark I left on you.” Faramir laughs. “I shall have to make another.”

“Make haste then,” Boromir grins, folding Faramir into his arms and touching lips, soft, to Faramir’s brow and mouth. “I heard footsteps pass this way not long ago, and know not when they shall be back again. We may be caught, unless you prefer to make the sounds of a fair maiden again, like that time we— _ah_.”

The threat of being discovered, coupled with Boromir’s easy humour, only makes Faramir bite all the harder, sink his teeth in all the deeper, demonstrating soundly that he is no swooning maiden, as he claims Boromir as his and his _alone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OST:**  
>  \- The March to Minas Tirith: [ Beowulf – Main Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dy31UdMz4Vk)  
> \- En Route to Rescue Faramir from the Pyre: [ Helios – Audiomachine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5KFjUTo2CE)


	7. An Urgent Summons

~

There are scant hours until dawn, during which Boromir directs efforts for the cleanup of the city, helping open paths and move rubble that has blocked access between the city’s circles. Works with the townsfolk to organize the pitching of tents and makeshift shelters throughout the city, until there is time to rebuild what parts of Minas Tirith have been destroyed.

When shelter and food for Minas Tirith’s people have been seen to, Boromir helps the remaining soldiers move the broken, battered bodies stippling the city streets and the fields of Pelennor. They give the soldiers who fell in battle what memorial they can, while burning bodies of Orcs, trolls and the dead of the enemy in crude bonfires.

Boromir is moving a body battered beyond recognition when his hand catches in the leather cord of a medallion, iron, stained with blood. He knows this medallion, knows the wolf carved into the metal—and _there_ , another talisman, fallen to the ground, a stone with runes etched into its surface—

“Oh,” he says, useless, as something knots tight in his chest, burns like vitriol in his throat. His foot grazes the edge of a small carving knife, and he knows instantly from the worn handle just whose it is.

These items belonged to comrades, men who had served under his command before—men he had counted as _friends_. Each with dreams, hopes, and people who loved them. 

Boromir nearly weeps; no longer will he know the taste of Garaven’s boiled rabbit stew on cold nights, while on the lookout for Orcs in the wild heaths of Gondor’s borders; never again will he suffer Lim’s bawdy jokes about barmaids as he flicks his stone talisman between weathered knuckles, nor hear Aegon’s tales of battles and the feats of warriors past, told to pass the time during patrols in Osgiliath, as he whittled wooden toys for the children of Minas Tirith.

 _They ought to know something besides the heft of a sword in their hands, or the burdens of a household_ , Aegon had always said. _Let them be children while they can._

And now, there is neither time to honor them nor the countless bodies of Gondor’s bravest properly. Their remains, each of which should receive a warrior’s funeral, have been relegated to smaller, careful bonfires, for quick and quiet disposal.

That they had fallen together, fighting to the last breath to defend what was most precious to them, is a small but cold comfort.

“Boromir,” says a voice, sympathetic and soft. 

An arm circles his shoulders, snug, and Boromir relaxes into the touch, knowing who it is even without turning. Faramir nods at the soldiers Boromir has been working with before they take their leave, and guides him to a sheltered alcove, yet unbroken from the battle. His hand never once leaves the small of Boromir’s back, where he has let it come to rest, his fingers splayed out warm against Boromir’s spine.

“Faramir,” Boromir tries, his voice caught between a heaving breath and a sob. “I—those were—we knew them. We _knew_ them.” He clutches at Faramir’s shoulders, helpless. The sight of his friends’ bodies was a crippling blow in itself, but only now does Boromir remember how it emphasizes the absence of their father’s, a death Boromir has refused to think about until now.

Faramir steadies Boromir with firm hands of his own, and when he is sure Boromir has stopped shaking, cups Boromir’s cheek with a roughened palm. “I know your heart is heavy with the loss of our comrades,” he says. “Our friends.” Faramir pauses, the words _And our father_ going unspoken. “But there will be time to remember them, before the end.” His thumbs brush against the crow’s feet of Boromir’s eyes as he touches his forehead to Boromir’s. “Do not carry the weight of the dead—not when there is life yet to be fought for. To be celebrated.”

Boromir hearkens back to his advice to Frodo, in the leg of their journey before Caras Galadhon, when they thought Gandalf lost to them: _You carry a heavy burden, Frodo; do not carry the weight of the dead_. “You are right,” Boromir whispers, pressing into the warmth and softness of his brother’s neck as Faramir folds him into his arms. “But it makes their passing no easier to bear.”

“I know,” says Faramir solemnly. He cards fingers through Boromir’s hair, gentle, the motion warmly reminiscent of their mother. “I know.” 

He says volumes with the simple motion, the simple words: _I know of your sorrows, your fears of what is to come. I know we only have each other now_. Kisses Boromir’s brow, a soft press of lips that is kind and caring, as he soothes circles into Boromir’s back. _I know everything_.

And for Faramir’s quiet and continual understanding, Boromir could weep. So he does, softly, secretly, with no other to see him than the one who knows and loves him best.

~

In the hours that follow, he and Faramir steal desperate kisses and dare furtive touches, sheltered by darkened corners and seldom-used hallways—at least until Faramir, in a fit of impatience, drags Boromir to his room. Presses him bodily to the bed to have his way with him.

His brother has always known best how to distract him, and this dark hour is no exception.

They end up whiling away precious moments in bed, simply breathing each other’s air and rediscovering familiar skin. Revel in comforting warmth between soft sheets and each other’s arms, both too exhausted and sore to do anything more. But they have little more than a day’s respite before a message is brought to Boromir, a summons from Gandalf to attend a council at the Citadel.

Boromir sighs, before kissing Faramir’s shoulder in apology and rising to gather his clothing, sorting and separating it from Faramir’s, from the mess they had thrown over a chair.

“Must you leave me so soon?” Faramir asks, propping himself up on an elbow and watching through half-lidded eyes.

There is the beginning of a pout on his kiss-reddened lips and it takes all of Boromir’s not inconsiderable willpower to keep from crawling back into bed with Faramir and winding his arms around his brother’s waist. Burying his face into the sleep-rumpled curls at the nape of Faramir’s neck and breathing in the sweetness of his fig-scented soap—a small luxury Boromir had secreted away for him from the chandler’s shop long ago.

“I must find out what it is that Gandalf needs of me. And _you_ ,” Boromir admonishes, as Faramir yawns and tugs at his tunic from the chair in an attempt to follow suit, “should stay abed and rest.”

“Let me know what comes of the council, then,” Faramir murmurs sleepily. He reels Boromir in for a soft, clumsy kiss, before stretching out languidly along the bed. “And bring me back a bite to eat,” he adds, eyeing Boromir hopefully.

“You…” Boromir begins, about to add _greedy little imp_ , fond, but Faramir has already turned away, curling into the sheets and cuddling into the remnants of their warmth. Makes the soft, snuffling sounds of sleep. 

So Boromir simply kisses Faramir on the forehead, pulls the embroidered duvet over Faramir’s shoulders, and sets out for the Citadel.

~

The cold, white walls and the impersonal guards of the Citadel where their father traditionally held his councils are not something Boromir looks forward to. Regardless, he makes his way to the hall, only too glad that he has not dragged his feet, for Éomer of Rohan is there, as well as his comrades from the Fellowship, and his _king_ —

“Aragorn!” Boromir exclaims. “Legolas! And Gimli! You have all—you are all—”

Aragorn smiles then, the edges of it soft but bright, like the first rose-hued light of dawn. “I am glad to see you well, Boromir,” he says, throwing his arms open wide to embrace Boromir, tight. 

“And I, you,” says Boromir, swallowing hard as he reciprocates the motion. “Thank you,” he manages, “for all you have done.” For Aragorn had come in Gondor’s darkest hour, had restored hope in Boromir and their people. He nods towards the others. “ _All_ of you. Thank you. _Thank you_. For—” He cannot find the words to show how grateful he is, that they did not leave him where he lay, on that fateful day at Amon Hen. That they had scrambled to save his life, before taking up the search for Merry and Pippin.

That they had _cared_ ; a Man, an Elf and a Dwarf, none of whom owed Boromir or Gondor their allegiance, except that forged through their journey together, such that it was.

Legolas’ eyes are suspiciously bright as he embraces Boromir with a slight half-smile, and he shakes his head when Boromir makes to thank him again, as if to say no words are needed. 

Gimli, for his part, tips a gruff nod in Boromir’s direction. Boromir is nearly convinced that the Dwarf will declare _Dwarves do not embrace_ , before Gimli somehow thinks better of it and flings his arms up around Boromir’s waist, hitching him forward, tight. Throws himself into the embrace in true Dwarf fashion: fiercely and with all his heart.

“I thought you might have—I thought you had di—” Gimli tries, when he finally draws away. He coughs wetly. “You are well now. That is all that matters.”

Behind Gimli, Éomer nods, sharing in the sentiment. Boromir clasps his forearm in an old gesture of camaraderie, before Éomer, too, envelopes Boromir in a sudden and heartfelt embrace. “Word traveled from the East that Boromir of Gondor had fallen,” he whispers, “but I could not—I _would not_ believe it.” Éomer blinks, his eyes suspiciously wet, and Boromir knows he, too, has known his share of loss, to say the least of potentially losing an ally. A friend.

“Thank you, old friend,” he says sincerely. “For coming to Gondor’s aid.” He knows how dearly it had cost Rohan to do so, to hold to their old allegiances.

Éomer inclines his head, with the bearing of the king he must become in Théoden’s stead. “You know Rohan will always answer.”

Gandalf clears his throat, though amusement tugs at his lips still, and a smile threatens to break across his face, like sun through a gathering of storm clouds. “There is another matter at hand,” he says. His expression darkens. “Frodo has passed beyond my sight.”

“Then it is as you hoped!” Boromir exclaims. “That he and Sam should make their way into the very heart of Mordor!”

“You forget, Boromir,” Gandalf says dryly, “that Sauron will now be amassing his armies anew from behind the walls of Mordor. Especially after suffering this defeat. Ten thousand Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.” He shakes his head and sighs. “No, I have sent Frodo to his death, and delivered the weapon of the enemy straight into his hands.”

A nearly palpable veil of gloom settles over the council, but Aragorn, as always, is quick to outline another plan, one to draw out Sauron’s armies, to keep the Great Eye away from Frodo and Sam. Everyone listens raptly until Aragorn details that they must gather their collective armies to march on the Black Gate at Barad-dûr.

Éomer raises a brow, settling a palm over the pommel of his sword. “We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms,” he says, tracing the ridge of the pommel, doubtful.

“Not for ourselves,” Aragorn agrees. “But we can give Frodo his chance by keeping Sauron’s eye fixed upon us. The combined forces of Gondor and Rohan are threat enough to keep him blind to all else that moves.” 

Even as Gandalf and Aragorn share a quick and quiet council, Gimli chuckles from the Steward’s chair where he has casually taken up residence. “Certainty of death,” he says, “small chance of success. What are we _waiting_ for?” He puffs at his pipe, huffing out a cloud of smoke as emphasis, as his feet dangle above the dais.

Boromir has noticed several of the guards looking on at this with displeasure, and thinks to reprimand Gimli for it, but after a moment he stills his tongue and merely laughs; nearly all of the Fellowship has been reunited in Minas Tirith now, for however short a time, and there is both joy and dread enough in this chamber, a few pitiful smoke rings be damned. 

He clasps Aragorn’s shoulder after Gandalf has spoken his piece. “I shall ride out with you,” Boromir says firmly. He does not expect to ride as Aragorn’s right hand, but to ride with him at all would be the greatest honor, regardless. 

“Boromir,” Aragorn says, quiet, his hand coming to clasp Boromir’s on his own shoulder. “You need not push yourself, so soon after the last battle. We have enough able-bodied men to—”

“Let me do this, Aragorn,” Boromir insists. “I would make right what I have done wrong. Make amendments to those whom I have wronged.”

Aragorn shakes his head, his hand tightening around Boromir’s, safe. “There has been no wrongdoing on your part, my friend. Nor on the part of any in the Fellowship.” He huffs a laugh, then. “You may ride with us, if only you feel well enough. But what would your brother say, if he knew you were courting battle like this?”

 _Ah_. At the thought of Faramir, waiting to hear the result of the council and waiting for Boromir’s return to their bed, Boromir stills, a knot of guilt coiling tight in his belly. “I…I shall speak with him.”

Aragorn nods, smiling. “See that you do.” He claps Boromir on the back. “After all, it would hardly do for him to think that I had whisked the Steward-to-be into war against his will!”

~

Before returning to his room, Boromir remembers to stop by the kitchens. Procures a small loaf of bread, carving out and buttering slices of it, drizzling honey over them for Faramir’s horrid sweet tooth.

“Faramir?” he tries, when he returns, careful to keep his footsteps light.

The room is empty, however, and Boromir’s hopes of finding his brother still curled in his sheets, warm and rumpled with sleep, are dashed. He had hoped to kiss Faramir awake with tiny, feathery kisses, tracing a path from the lobe of his ear to the base of his neck. Another from the apple of his throat to his lips, hopefully still kiss-swollen and red from their last ministrations.

“Have you seen my brother?” Boromir asks, as one of the maidservants passes him in the hall. 

“Ah! Lord Faramir has returned to the Houses of Healing,” she says, chuckling. “One of the healers found him skulking around the kitchens, and requested that he return to the healing halls at once to resume treatment.”

Boromir nods his thanks and hurries to the Houses of Healing to find Faramir. Enters the wide, roomy halls, only to find that two others have beaten him to his brother for company.

“Merry!” Boromir exclaims. “Pippin!”

“Boromir!” they cry, scrambling from where they have nestled at Faramir’s side to tackle Boromir in the most affectionate of embraces.

Boromir kneels to throw his arms around their shoulders, and both Merry and Pippin’s arms squeeze around Boromir all the tighter.

“Boromir! I saw you were well, but there wasn’t time to—there were so many Orcs—and _Faramir_ ,” Pippin tries, too many things vying to be said at once. “Oh, oh, and Merry and I—the Ents, you’d never believe it!”

Eventually, when Pippin has calmed sufficiently to organize his narrative, Boromir hears their story: of how Pippin and Merry had escaped from the Uruks in the night—thanks in no small part to the Riders of Rohan—and encountered the Ents, ancient beings of the forest. Had convinced them to join the fight against Saruman, before joining up with those from the Fellowship who had gone on to look for them. 

They regale him with the tale of how Pippin had first come to Minas Tirith with Gandalf, and pledged his fealty to Boromir’s father—in honor of Boromir, whom he thought had fallen, though Gandalf had kept him from revealing so with a sharp jab to the calves—while Denethor had simply looked on, amused at the thought of a little Hobbit offering his service to the Steward of Gondor. How Merry had stayed in Edoras and pledged the same for Théoden, becoming an esquire of Rohan.

“And then?” Faramir says, his eyes wide, goading Pippin onward. “Tell us again, of how you lit the beacon!”

Boromir nearly laughs; he _knows_ that look, the sweetly doe-eyed expression that could always persuade Boromir to read _one more page_ from the story they were immersed in, _one more story_ from the books that occupied their nights as children. “I would hear this tale as well,” he nods. Had it not been for this one, small action, to call forth their allies from Rohan, Minas Tirith might still have fallen. 

Pippin acknowledges his own accomplishment of lighting Minas Tirith’s beacon with the humblest of explanations and an impatient wave of his hand, as if the entire thing was of little consequence. And though Boromir is about to tell him this was no mean feat, Pippin rushes ahead to their deeds on the Pelennor fields, much to Merry’s amusement. 

“ _Merry_ here,” Pippin says, his curls bouncing with how emphatically he nods, “took on the leader of the _Nazgûl_!”

Merry only shrugs modestly at this, but his grin is too wide to be anything but just a bit proud, and Boromir laughs, throwing his arms around their small frames again, fond. 

“Well done, little ones!” he says, ruffling their hair. It is a joy to finally see the Halflings for himself, despite hearing from the others that they were well, and reuniting with Pippin in a moment when his brother was _not_ in mortal danger is a pleasure in itself. 

Boromir catches Faramir’s eye then, and he swallows hard, past the lump building in his throat. “Thank you,” he says to Pippin. “For your help in saving my brother. I thought him lost to me, but you…”

Faramir’s expression speaks volumes then, in the minute furrow of his brow, the soft downturn of his mouth. _Oh, Boromir_. He had known the same crushing defeat when he thought Boromir had fallen, and Boromir can tell from his expression just how much he empathizes at this moment. Had the Halflings not been present, he would have laced his fingers through Faramir’s immediately, to touch, to reaffirm, to know his brother’s life was safe and indulge in his presence. And by the way Faramir’s fingers twitch toward his, it seems Faramir would do the same.

How like Faramir, to know what is in Boromir’s mind, and the very depths of his heart! At this realization, it pains Boromir anew to know how close he had come to losing his brother. Clearing his throat, Boromir continues. “At any rate, I…I could not have done it without you.” 

Pippin beams at him, his smile broad and warm, brighter than the sun’s light on the White Tower.

Faramir hums. “On that note, perhaps you would not mind if Boromir and I had a moment to ourselves?” He winks at Pippin. “I promise that after, his company shall be all yours.”

“Not at all!” nods Pippin, and he settles back into his cot with Merry. It is obvious that he means to keep an eye on Merry at all times, careful not let his friend out of his sight, lest he be parted from him again. The gesture warms Boromir’s heart, until the insistent tug of Faramir’s fingers reminds him of just who it is he came here to see. 

“Envious of them, little brother?” Boromir teases, when Faramir has led him away by the elbow to his own cot.

“What have I to be envious of?” Faramir snorts, as Boromir takes a seat beside him, on the side of the cot. “That they found shelter in your drawers for weeks during the journey, as they tell me? During my stay in these halls, they have regaled me with stories enough of how they weathered much of their journey hidden in your cloak, your shield, or your—”

Boromir laughs, even as he advances toward Faramir, careful, but still predatory. “That they might embrace me so openly. Without fear of retribution.”

“Oh,” says Faramir faintly. “In that case, yes.” He grins, wicked. “But that shall be remedied soon enough.”

He is laboring under the false belief that they have time now, that there is a chance for respite, now that the battle for Minas Tirith is over. 

“Faramir,” Boromir begins, hesitant, “there is something else I must speak with you about.” He would not see the mirth fade from Faramir’s eyes so soon, but he has little choice, and even less time.

“Yes?” Faramir asks, too innocent by half. The sweetened bread Boromir had brought for him is all but gone, half of it stolen by their industrious little Hobbits during their storytelling, and Faramir picks at the remaining morsels now, amused. Swipes a finger around the edge of the plate, gathering what dregs of honey he can before bringing his finger to his mouth. Licks it clean slowly, deliberately, each teasing stroke of his tongue and his lips wrapped around the tip the very picture of temptation. “What do you wish to speak of?”

Boromir clears his throat, after a hard swallow fails to will away the desire that has begun to stir in the pit of his belly. “The council I attended…” The way Faramir flicks his tongue over his lower lip to catch a stray drop of honey is all kinds of distracting, and Boromir finds himself floundering to gather his thoughts. “The council, that is—”

Faramir hums, curling discreet fingers around Boromir’s. Strokes his thumb lazily over Boromir’s pulse point, indulgent. “Yes, what of it?”

“ _Faramir_ ,” Boromir says, exasperated, trapping Faramir’s hand beneath his to still it. “Aragorn plans to lead a host of Men, the combined armies of Gondor and Rohan to the Black Gate. To draw Sauron’s eye away from Frodo and Sam, who, as we speak, are making their way into the very heart of Mordor.”

“And you plan to go with them,” Faramir says dryly, his brazen seduction ceasing at once. There is no question in his voice, for he knows Boromir’s heart like his own. He remains silent for a moment, thoughtful. “Very well,” Faramir decides finally, his fingers tightening around Boromir’s again. “We will ride out with Aragorn together.”

“Faramir, _no_ ,” Boromir admonishes. “You cannot come with us. You must remain abed and recover.” That Faramir would be the last in the line of Stewards, their final safeguard against the enemy should neither Boromir nor their king return, is a thought that does not bear dwelling on. 

“So must you,” says Faramir, chin tilted upward, defiant. “If I cannot ride out with you, then you are not going.”

“Faramir, if you would but see reason—”

“ _No_ ,” says Faramir. “It is _you_ who must see reason.” There is a new hollowness to his voice that makes Boromir’s heart ache, and he clasps fingers around Faramir’s wrist, apologetic. “You are barely healed yourself, your body wrung so recently through another battle. _Stay_ ,” Faramir says, quiet but fierce. “You have more than made up for any misdeeds under the Ring’s influence. Why not remain as part of the garrison to defend the city?” He narrows his eyes. “Unless you do this out of some misguided sense of obligation or guilt.”

Faramir’s words strike at the very heart of him, but Boromir shakes his head, his resolve unfaltering. “I would ride with our king into battle. He came to Gondor’s aid in our time of utmost need, and I would stand with him in the hour of his.”

“And what of _me_?” Faramir demands, in the way that he means _What of_ my _need?_ “Us?”

“If we do not do this, there will be no future for us. For Men. For _anyone_ ,” says Boromir, patient.

“No!” Faramir’s hands wrap tight around Boromir’s forearms. “You stubborn mule, I would not see you fall in battle, so soon after this hard-won victory. Not when we are so close to vanquishing Sauron’s forces, so close to the end!”

Boromir grins. “Is that the fondness of a brother I hear speaking?”

“No,” says Faramir. He stares, unseeing, at a point just past Boromir’s shoulder. “It is the selfishness of a lover.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Boromir, his heart twisting in his chest. Faramir must be truly worried, to be so candid. He presses his palm, warm, against the inside of Faramir’s arm. “Then you would know it is _because_ we are so close that I must go. Sauron’s army amasses behind his gates now; we must draw them off, so that Frodo and Sam can make their way to the volcano at the heart of Mordor. Only there can the ring be unmade.”

“Always you tempt fate,” Faramir whispers. He shakes his head and turns away. “Each time I think you have evaded Death’s grasp, each time I believe you have come home to stay, you leave _again_.”

 _One more battle_ , Boromir thinks to promise. _One more, and then we can have this. There will be peace enough for us to be together, in the way we wish_. But he is not in the practice of making promises he cannot keep. 

“What can I do to ease your stay here?” Boromir asks instead. “To ease your heart?” He sets his fingers on Faramir’s knee, stroking lightly and affectionately. Lets them skim along Faramir’s thigh, daring, bold.

Since that fright with Gandalf, they allow themselves only the barest of touches in public now, to shoulders and elbows and knees. The occasional curl of fingers, or the clasp of forearms in camaraderie. But he can see Faramir needs this, needs the soothing reassurance that for now, they still live, that they are together, despite all that might sunder them in short hours.

Faramir shrinks his leg back, curling into a resolute lump beneath the blanket to ignore him. It only makes what Boromir wishes to say next inordinately difficult. 

“Faramir,” he says softly, plaintive. Strokes the blanketed lump where he thinks Faramir’s shoulder should be. 

After a moment’s pause, a hand snakes out of the covers and curls back around his. “What is it?” Faramir asks, if a little gruffly, as he emerges from beneath the blanket.

Boromir allows himself a small smile. “It would mean the world to me if…if I could wear something of yours into battle.”

A hint of Faramir’s old enthusiasm brightens his face. “A favor, you mean.” When Boromir nods, Faramir allows himself the smallest smile in return, touching the vambraces Boromir has worn all this time. “This pair of vambraces I lent you before, to act in the stead of your gauntlets—they are favor enough, are they not?”

“Oh,” Boromir blinks. He looks down to where Faramir’s fingers press into his arms, sheepish, before beaming brightly. “I had nearly forgotten their presence. They have been with me for so long that they have become part of me, as vital and needed as air itself.”

A flush rises to Faramir’s cheeks at that, but his smile only grows wider, leaving no doubt as to how pleased he is, that something of his should become so unnoticed yet so necessary to Boromir. “As well they should!” he laughs. “But I would have something of yours in return, if you allow it.”

Boromir nods. “Ask, and it shall be yours.” _If it is my heart, you already have it_ , Boromir thinks. _And if it is my love, I have and shall gladly give it—more of it—as much as is in me to give_.

“Lend me your cloak,” Faramir says, unexpectedly. “That I may pass the nights here without you easier.” 

“Oh, is _that_ it?” Boromir chuckles. He obliges the request easily enough, unhooking the clasp of his cloak and shrugging it from his frame. Swirls it over Faramir’s shoulders, pulling Faramir to him. 

For a moment, he is tempted to give in and stay, if only to kiss the sorrow from Faramir’s face. To lean in for one last taste of his lips, to inhale and memorize the scent of his hair. Instead, he pulls the cowl over Faramir’s head, fond, with a stilted laugh. 

“This is farewell then, little brother,” Boromir nods, as he turns to leave the healing chambers. “Remember today—”

Faramir hisses violently at that, marching out after him. “ _No_ ,” Faramir snarls, dragging Boromir back and crowding him into a dark corner, his hands fisted tight in the collar of Boromir’s tunic. “Do you not remember the day you left for Rivendell, the last time you said those words to me?” Faramir shakes his head, his teeth gritted, and Boromir nearly trembles at this anger, boiling so close to the surface. “Had I actually lost you at Amon Hen, you would have had me remember that day as the _last I ever saw you_.”

“Oh, Faramir,” Boromir manages, the start of an apology on his lips before Faramir growls and crushes their mouths together, kissing him, wordless, wild, and desperate, as if this kiss might be their last. His arms wind tight around Boromir’s waist, as if he is something precious, something Faramir cannot live without. Hitch him in close, as if he fears that Boromir might be taken from him again. “Faramir,” Boromir breathes, trying to push him away, gentle. If Faramir does not stop kissing him, Boromir will not want to leave, will want to stay here, and he cannot afford to disappoint his king, not again—

“Let me have this, brother,” Faramir begs. “ _Please_.”

Boromir concedes, letting Faramir’s hands wander under his tunic, lets his fevered touch slide down his trousers to cup his buttocks, before he grips Faramir’s shoulders and reverses their places. He pushes Faramir into the wall, pinning his wrists beside his head, finds himself pressing against Faramir’s trousers, and _oh_ , there is an answering hardness against his thigh, that Boromir very much wants, to slide against, to taste, to—

“No,” Boromir says, his breath heaving as he tears himself away. “We cannot, we have not the _time_.”

Faramir, equally wild-eyed and breathless, blinks before gripping Boromir’s shoulders, hard. Touches his lips to Boromir’s, once, gentler this time, unlike their kisses prior. “Good!” he says fiercely. “Then you shall have something to look forward to upon your return.” He chuckles at Boromir’s dazed expression. “Now _go_. Before I keep you prisoner here myself.”

“If it means anything now,” says Boromir, “my heart has ever been your prisoner.” He would have Faramir know this before he goes; if this is to be the end, he would bare his soul and speak plain.

“And you, have ever been my heart,” Faramir replies. He lays his hand on the pommel of Boromir’s sword, reverent, as if it were a talisman, with the power to bring Boromir home.

At that, something in Boromir’s chest aches fit to burst, and he takes his leave, praying all the while for his safe return and for Faramir’s swift recovery, because he is Faramir’s heart, and Faramir is his, and if either should perish, the other would wither into ash—into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OST:**  
>  \- Last Moments, Before Departing For Mordor: [Evenstar – Various](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im5CIpMFo4Q) or: [Opening Minutes of _The Steward of Gondor_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YY337bLiSio)


	8. Battle At The Black Gate

~

They set out at dawn, Aragorn leading the vanguard, with Boromir, Éomer, Gandalf and Legolas riding behind him. Each rider besides Aragorn and Boromir bears another passenger of their own, these including Gimli, Merry, and Pippin.

Before their departure, Faramir had once again slipped away from the healing halls into the stables where Boromir was readying his horse. Guided him into a deserted stall, away from the others. They had not exchanged words then, only desperate, clinging kisses that banished the fear and stirred the courage in Boromir’s heart, until Faramir had broken away, his lips red as candied apples. Snarled hands in Boromir’s cloak, the Elven gift from Galadriel that Boromir dared wear again at last, to ride into battle beside his king.

“Come _back to me_ ,” Faramir had whispered, fierce, despite the waver of his voice. As if he was choking back a sob. Then he was gone, a shadow wrapped in Boromir’s fur-lined cloak, gone before Boromir could say _I cannot promise that, Faramir. You know this_.

Boromir had, with a laugh, suffered Gimli’s good-natured jibes and congratulatory back pats after, praise for Boromir having the vigor to go for a 'roll in the hay” before battle. Especially when it was found that Boromir had bits of straw in his hair he had forgotten to pick out, occupied with Faramir as he was.

It is the thought of Faramir that spurs Boromir on in the nearly week-long ride to reach the Black Gate. The memory of his kiss-swollen lips. His hopeful, clutching hands.

By the time they arrive at Sauron’s stronghold, their armies have been sorely depleted; they had started out seven thousand-strong, but there were those who had quailed at the thought of bringing the fight to Sauron’s doorstep, and no amount of patriotic banter could rally their courage. Those men were sent on to retake Cair Andros, while those less faint of heart had carried on.

Boromir looks behind him now and catches the eye of Mablung, one of Faramir’s trusted Rangers, and they share a nod; Faramir had spoken with Mablung to lead a contingent of the Ithilien Rangers in his stead, and they flank Gondor’s cavalry now, each Ranger just as skilled as his brother in battle, each of them just as brave. Their stout courage warms Boromir’s heart, reminding him of Faramir’s, and for a moment, it is as if his brother is here in spirit, at least, if not in body.

“Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!” cries Aragorn, as Boromir and the rest of the vanguard come to a stop beside him. “Let justice be done upon him!”

With a cantankerous groan, the spiked gates of the fortress open, and a being rides out, twisted, dark, with blood on teeth. “My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome,” it says. 

Aragorn graces it with a look that is all kinds of unimpressed, and Boromir bites his lip, swallowing a laugh. Never before has he seen one with the ability to manage such contempt and _disdain_ in one look. 

“Is there any in this rout with the ability to treat with me?” the creature asks, unfazed. 

How dare it think that the armies of Men had ridden over land and stream to _join_ Sauron’s ranks! Boromir starts forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Gandalf stays his hand with a minute shake of his head. 

“We do not come to _treat_ with Sauron,” Gandalf replies sharply. He outlines their terms: that the armies of Mordor are to disband and that Sauron is to depart these lands, never to return. But their faith is shaken when the being tosses Frodo’s mithril shirt at Gandalf in response; gloats, at how the Halfling was captured, tortured. How he had _suffered_.

“Who would have thought,” mocks this servant of Sauron, with another of its sinister smiles, “that one so small could endure so much _pain_?”

Boromir feels his teeth clench, tight. He would cleave the foul creature’s head from its shoulders if he could, were it not an open act of war. They had taken Frodo, then. Taken Gondor’s last hope at vanquishing the armies of darkness that had spread like a miasma across the land. 

Aragorn urges his horse closer, nodding wisely, sage, as if heeding the being’s mocking words—about being Isildur’s heir, of how it takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade—then promptly cleaves its head from its shoulders, the motion swift and sharp, leaving a gout of blood spilling forth from its neck. 

“I do not believe it!” shouts Aragorn, as he turns to Gandalf, to Merry and Pippin who seem most stricken by Frodo’s demise. “I will not!” 

Gimli harrumphs from behind Legolas. “ _Well_. I suppose that concludes negotiations,” he says, with his usual cheek.

Boromir can only assume that Gimli, too, had wished to act as Aragorn had, as his fingers twitch at the haft of his axe, and he snorts a laugh; even in the face of near-certain death, the Black Gate, and all that might bring Middle Earth to ruin, the Dwarf remains undaunted.

As the gates of Barad-dûr are thrown wide open to reveal the might of Sauron’s army, Boromir shares a look of grim determination with Éomer, glad now that he fights beside friends, alongside allies, of Rohan, of Gondor, each united under Aragorn’s banner, the standard of the White Tree of Gondor. Takes heart in Aragorn’s words of fearlessness, words that stir the very fire in his soul: _A day may come when the courage of Men fails…but it is not this day! This day, we_ fight _!_

But when the armies of Mordor close in around them—foul Orcs and trolls and a gamut of accursed creatures, snarling and snapping from every direction, a sea of writhing bodies with no end—Boromir has not the time to laugh, or to muse upon Aragorn’s reflection of his words from so long ago, of there being courage and honor to be found in Men.

There is only time to fight for his life, for Gondor, and for freedom from Sauron’s pervading darkness.

~

Faramir nestles into his brother’s fur-lined cloak during the cold nights. Holds it like something dear to him, the pleasing warmth of its fabric not only a safeguard against the drafts sweeping the healing halls in the darkest hours, but against loneliness, worry, and pain.

And if he curls into its soft fur, tight, pretending its warmth is that of Boromir’s embrace, that is for no one to know.

He watches for their return each day, gazing out toward the fields of Pelennor. Hopes, with each passing day, for the sound of silver trumpets, heralding the army’s triumphant homecoming. For Boromir’s safe return.

Faramir is stationed at his unofficial post by the archways of the healing halls again, when a draft sweeps past, prompting him to pull Boromir’s cloak tighter about his frame. To pretend, as he usually does, that it is Boromir’s arms that circle his shoulders. With a wistful sigh, Faramir bunches the collar in his hands, breathing in the lingering smell of Boromir’s musk, the traces of its earthy scent. Toys at the silver clasp, his fingers tracing the engraving—intricate lines that fan out to the edges from a corner, like wild feathers from the wings of a great eagle—and wonders if Boromir has traced the same design with his own fingers, time and time again. The same clever fingers that could bring them both such _pleasure_ —

“You treasure your brother’s cloak,” says a voice from behind him, amused.

Faramir instantly drops the cloak where he has bunched it in his hands and turns to see who it is that speaks. 

Éowyn, a shieldmaiden of Rohan, nods at him from beside a potted shrub. He has heard tell of her triumphs on the battlefield, including the defeat of the Witch-King of Angmar at her hands, and she shows now the same confidence. Demonstrates that she is no shrinking violet when speaking her mind. 

He gives her a slow, careful smile. “A keepsake, nothing more.”

Her fair hair glows brighter than the sunlight, her skin ivory-pale, but for all that beauty, it is her smile that heartens him, gentle in its understanding. “There is no shame in holding it dear,” Éowyn says, moving toward him, with a gait that is all litheness and grace. Her eyes rest on the cloak lining her own cot, its royal green with gold trim, proud colors of Rohan, marred by dust and blood. “I, too, have a brother, who has marched to the Black Gate.”

Faramir dips his head in acknowledgement, and says no more, though it warms his heart that he has perhaps found an ally in her. 

Éowyn tarries for a while longer by the archway, watching the fields for a sign of movement, hopeful for the glimpse of a returning army, as Faramir is. Slips her hand, small and cool and pale, around Faramir’s for a fraction of a second. 

“They will return,” Éowyn says simply. She squeezes his hand, quick, encouraging. “They _must_.”

~

Faramir had _insisted_ that Boromir carry his shield with him, to fend off wayward arrows at the least, and Boromir takes the order to heart now. Dashes through clusters of Orcs, stunning them first with his shield before slashing through them with his sword, or bashing them in straightaway with the shield. At other times, it provides him a measure of protection, allowing him to strike at the underbelly of an enemy in the same instance.

“For Gondor!” Boromir shouts, as he cuts down foe after foe.

In time, however, his battle-cry transforms, almost without him noticing, so subtle is the change. He had started his charge into the fray with _For Gondor_ , before it becomes _For Faramir_ —that his brother could not be here, that Boromir is fighting for him, to get back to him. 

For the future they might have. 

Faramir’s name on his lips gives him strength. Gives him hope. But the sound is lost amid the clanging of steel and the wet rending of flesh. Blends into the cries of his comrades, similar, brave, hopeful. He hears _For Frodo_ and _For the Shire_ among the others, but only one name matters to him now. 

Each person fights now for what they believe in, for what is most precious.

“Boromir!” Aragorn shouts, as a troll in plated armour bears down on him, its club glancing off Aragorn’s sword reforged, throwing off wild sparks with each blow.

Boromir weaves his way through the Orcs, ducking under swinging axes and narrowly dodging a volley of arrows from Faramir’s Rangers to help Aragorn fend off the armored troll that seeks to crush him. Throws himself bodily into the bulk of the troll. And when the troll falls, its unprotected midsection exposed, he and Aragorn make quick work of it, driving swords deep into its flesh.

There is but a short moment of reprieve, before Boromir leaps to defend Éomer’s back from a great Orc-sword that would have cleaved him in two; Éomer tips a nod of thanks in Boromir’s direction, before raising his sword to cut down another, then another, in the endless sea of Orcs.

Boromir turns to face his own set of enemies, slaying Orc after Orc with his sword, broad, sharp, the same warrior’s blade battle-tested at Amon Hen, when a troll armed with a coat of spikes slams its club into the ground before him. 

Thrown off balance by the shockwave, Boromir staggers back, stunned. In the time it takes for him to regain his bearings, the troll swings at him again, wilder, brutal, with the reckless strength of one who knows they have caught their prey. Shatters Boromir’s shield, splintering the wood as if it were no more than a child’s plaything.

Boromir tries to dodge the wild downswing of the club, again and again, but his head is already swimming from the first strike and he topples to the ground. Sensing its advantage, the troll raises its filthy, mottled-grey foot, trodding upon him, crushing him, bearing its full weight down on his chest. 

It pains Boromir, this pressure, this crushing weight, and for a moment he is tempted to give in. To let the massive creature grind his flesh and bone into the ground, as if he never was, when all that awaits him should he live is more battle, more slaughter. 

_No!_ Boromir thinks desperately. _Faramir—I must see him again!_

Boromir pulls out a dagger, the brother to his sword remade, and stabs the troll in the calf. Twists the dagger, hard, drawing a welling gout of foul, black ichor from the wound. With a roar of rage, the troll snatches up an errant spear and drives it into Boromir’s shoulder, and despite Boromir’s best efforts to roll with the strike, the force of it drives the breath from his lungs. 

Sends his sword skittering away into the fray of Orcs and trolls. 

Boromir scrabbles for another sword nearby, splintering the shaft of the spear with the sword and breaking it off. Cleaves the troll’s arm from its torso as it raises its club high above its head for a killing blow, and presses his advantage, swinging for its head. The spear’s injury has sapped his strength, however, and his swing has not force enough to behead it. 

He succeeds only in partially severing its stout, thick neck from its head, and a spray of blood stains his armor and cloak as it falls. Marks him, with dark streaks of crimson, as one of the brave who would dare contest the strength of Sauron.

An Orc takes the opportunity as Boromir staggers back from the dead troll to slip a shiv into his thigh, underhanded and sly. And though Boromir slaughters the Orc with a roar, pulls out the spear from where it was lodged in his shoulder, it is in this moment that another two Orcs flank him—one driving a knife into his back, vicious, rough, while the other’s blow strikes home, its blade finding his old arrow wound from Amon Hen, slipping deep into barely-healed flesh and rending it anew.

Boromir sways unsteadily, impaled by this two-pronged attack, as a sharp pain lances deep and cruel through his chest. He cannot move his body—cannot summon the breath or strength needed to swing his sword arm, can only fall to his knees, helpless.

An archer’s arrow flies true, slaying the Orc behind him, and heartened, Boromir tries to struggle to his feet, but to no avail. The Orc in front of him pulls its blade from Boromir’s shoulder with a sickening _schunk_. Raises it high above its head, ready to cut him down. 

Distantly he can hear Gimli’s roar of “No!” and Merry and Pippin’s twin cries of panic, but they are too far away. _Everyone_ is too far away; none will ever reach Boromir in time. 

_Oh, Faramir_ , Boromir thinks sorrowfully, hoping by some miracle that his thoughts will reach his brother. _I am sorry I cannot return to you_. 

It strikes him as ironic, that his last thoughts are once again of regret, that he will never return home to Faramir. But there is a measure of peace the same, that he was given time to be with his brother again, however short it was.

Blood trickles into Boromir’s eye from a cut over his brow, warm and wet. Clouds his vision, a crimson bloom staining it the red of the battlefield.

 _I love you, Faramir_ , Boromir thinks, with all his might.

 _I love_ —

~

“You must take some rest, Lord Faramir,” says Círeth, one of the healers.

Faramir only shakes his head, with the façade of a smile. _I will find no rest here_ , he thinks. 

He spends long hours of the day at his self-imposed sentry, joined occasionally by the Lady Éowyn, hoping for a glimpse of the returning army.

Even in the night, he is granted no respite, his slumber plagued with nightmares of Boromir falling in battle, far from home. His mind cycles through older visions, other close scrapes with death Boromir has since come to tell him of: an Orc’s arrow a hair’s breadth away from his head in the depths of Moria; being knocked senseless by a cave troll and nearly killed by an opportunistic Orc, before Aragorn saved him; nearly falling into a bottomless chasm en route to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. 

But none of those are as terrible as his recurring nightmares of Boromir falling at Amon Hen, pierced by arrows, black-fletched and cruel, again and again, with Faramir powerless to stop it. Of Boromir attempting to warn him at Osgiliath, only to be—

 _Enough!_ Faramir wants to roar. _Cease the visions of things that have already come to pass, and show me that which_ is _! Show me how my brother fares this moment!_

But it seems his worry wreaks havoc with his gift for prophecy, as Faramir is given nothing in the way of his brother’s fate. Nothing to set his mind at ease or bring him solace. That, and the fact that the Valar only grant visions when they wish, and not when the seer calls.

A week from Boromir’s departure to the Black Gate is the only time Faramir receives anything remotely close regarding his brother’s fate.

The night it happens, Faramir is reliving a happier time in his dreams, a memory of himself and Boromir as children, playing on a hillside not far from the Great Gate. 

Boromir had smiled, bright, as they crouched in the grass. “We are the same,” he whispered, nudging his nose against Faramir’s, for it was true: they were similar in likeness, voice, and spirit, despite their differing temperaments. Boromir had crowned Faramir with a garland he had woven from daisies, ivory-white and fragrant, and Faramir had wound his small fingers through Boromir’s, their hands sticky from the candied nuts the cook had given them as a treat. Had laughed, joyous, bright.

“We _are_ ,” he had said, but this time the scene shifts, the way things do in dreams: the day is no longer sunlit and warm, the sky overcast with dark clouds and biting wind. 

And instead of what he usually says in the memory, Faramir hears Boromir’s voice from a great distance away, as if it has been carried to him on the wind. Not his voice as a child, but as a man. It is warm but inordinately sad. 

_Oh, Faramir_ , he says. _I am sorry. I cannot return to you_.

“No!” Faramir cries, bolting upright in his cot. He wakes with his eyes wet with tears, reaching for Boromir, but his hand lights on empty air, reminding him of just how far Boromir is from Faramir’s side, where he should be, always. Faramir flushes when he notices the healers and other wounded soldiers eyeing him curiously, but they turn away soon enough; night terrors are not uncommon in this wing of the healing halls. 

Faramir settles back into his cot, wiping the chilled sweat from his brow as he tries to slow his breathing. Curls harder into Boromir’s cloak, his dearest keepsake of his brother.

 _Please_ , he begs of the Valar, of Eru, of any divine being that deigns to listen to his pleas. _Bring Boromir home to me, safe and unharmed_. He has never begged like this before, then convinced of his brother’s infallibility, but Moria, Amon Hen and Osgiliath have shown how untrue that belief is. 

_Please_ , begs Faramir. He tangles fingers tight into the soft, worn cloth of Boromir’s cloak, clutching it to his chest.

 _Please_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- ["Come Back To Me"](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/stable.png~original) – Art Commissioned by Hvit-Ravn  
> \- I’m including these commissions on good faith, so please don’t spread them around Tumblr, or Instagram, or any other such social media. I’d really like to share the work of these amazingly talented artists, but if I find them appearing on Tumblr or the likes, I simply won’t post any more of them. Thanks for understanding!
> 
>  **OST:**  
>  \- The Host of the West, at the Black Gate: [ The Black Gate Opens – Howard Shore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBM6w16gVhg)  
> \- The Battle Begins: [ As The Hammer Falls – Brian Tyler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HxY3sB5jR4)  
> \- Faramir and Éowyn, on Brothers: [ Saya’s Love – Mark Mancina ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQFKABDBnaU)


	9. A Hero Comes Home

~

_I am sorry, Faramir_ , Boromir thinks, as the Orc above him raises its cruelly-curved blade. A killing strike—one Boromir cannot evade, wounded as he is.

Just then, the scalding cries of the Nazgûl sound overhead, and the land gives a great shudder, a heaving breath. From above, the eye of Sauron stills, its swiveling gaze paralyzed, as if something has stolen its core, sapped its source of power, and it is left with no choice but to consume itself from within. 

There is one moment in which everything is absolutely still, a terrible calm before the storm, before the tower, long the seat of the Great Eye, collapses in on itself. Takes with it Sauron’s all-seeing gaze. And around Boromir, the dark fortress begins to _disintegrate_. 

_Frodo_ , Boromir mouths in realization, a fierce and sudden joy taking hold in his heart. _And Sam!_

He would weep with relief if he was not a moment away from being killed, because this means the creature at the gate had _lied_. That their Halflings have managed to destroy the ring, spelling the end of _Sauron_ and _Mordor_ , and all the things Boromir has been fighting against his whole life. 

When even the ground upon which the fortress stands begins to cave, the armies of Mordor start dispersing in disarray, leaderless, Orcs and trolls alike making their frenzied attempt at escape.

The Orc above him twitches its head sideways. Turns to look between its fleeing comrades and Boromir, unsure of whether to join its brethren in fleeing the collapse of the tower and the earth around them, or to stay and claim credit for a mighty kill. 

Its decision is forcibly made for it when an axe flies through the air, splitting its skull with a bone-splintering _crack_.

“ _Up_ , laddie,” Gimli urges, suddenly at Boromir’s side. He wrenches his blade from the Orc’s head and hoists Boromir to his feet. “ _Up_.” Gimli presses a sword into Boromir’s hand, the blade broad, the hilt familiar and worn, but is not until Boromir fits his palm to the grip, his body remembering each nick and groove, that he realizes Gimli has returned his own sword to him.

Boromir’s fist tightens over the grip, his hope renewed by the return of his sword and the fall of Barad-dûr, and he takes Gimli’s helping hand. Drives the sword into the ground as a support as he rises unsteadily to his feet, feeling ungainly as a newborn foal. “The others,” he manages, his throat dry, parched with the dust and debris surging all around them, even as Gimli hefts Boromir’s arm over his shoulder. “Aragorn. Legolas—”

“They can take care of themselves,” Gimli growls. “For now, _run_!”

They lope along, a strange, lopsided scuttle of Man and Dwarf, away from the destruction of Mordor, escaping the force of Sauron’s empire collapsing around them until they are far enough away from the Black Gate and the dying will of Sauron’s land.

“Is it—” Boromir touches his tongue to his lips, uncertain. “Is it over?”

Gimli watches the destruction that unfolds below them, gravely. Turns his eyes toward Mount Doom, where liquid fire and destruction rains upon the land below. Neither of them voice the hope that it is indeed Frodo and Sam’s doing, by destroying the ring. 

“Sauron’s army is scattered,” Gimli offers, finally. “And the Great Eye destroyed. They’ll not be bothering us for a long time yet. If ever.”

Boromir’s gaze sweeps the land below, watching as the Nazgûl and their fell-beasts are devoured by flaming debris. Looks on as Orcs and trolls and all manner of Sauron’s foul creatures are swallowed by the earth in what was once a bloodied field of battle. 

_Not ever_ , Boromir thinks grimly. _If the ring is truly destroyed, then let Sauron’s forces never again darken these lands_.

He swallows his hopes, not daring to voice them aloud, but the way Gimli grips Boromir’s arm hefted about his shoulders shows that he feels the same thrill of anticipation, a mix of eagerness and dread the same. 

They stand there, watching the darkness fall away around them, their hearts in their throats, watching, waiting, hopeful.

~

It takes the better part of the day before Boromir and Gimli are reunited with the others. Aragorn’s armour is stained with battle and blood, and while the others are much the same, only Gimli wears them as a source of pride, falling to bickering with Legolas about their kill count as Gandalf looks on with an expression of fond disapproval.

They stop to make camp before the march back to Minas Tirith, taking care to avoid the slag heaps and refuse that mark the remainder of Sauron’s lands. Aragorn is readying a dish of athelas, grinding it with mortar and pestle to treat Boromir’s wounds, and Gimli is away fetching fresh bandages, when Merry and Pippin—streaked with blood and filth and splotches that suspiciously resemble food stains—fight their way through the barrier of Aragorn and Legolas to reach Boromir. Carve themselves a niche by Boromir’s side, tucking themselves into the crooks of his arms.

“We’re sorry!” begins Pippin breathlessly, his hands worrying at Boromir’s vambrace.

“We promised Faramir we’d protect you,” adds Merry. 

“—but we couldn’t,” Pippin says finally, and he looks so utterly forlorn that Boromir moves his good arm, wincing as he does, to tousle Pippin’s curls. “There were so many Orcs, and then a _troll_ tried to—and then Legolas found us—”

“Hush, little ones,” Boromir laughs. “I shall tell Faramir that you _did_ , and he will be none the wiser.” 

In response, they burrow guiltily into his sides, hiding in his cloak, until Gimli returns, harrumphing, and nudges them aside with the blunt heel of his axe. “Away with you, now,” he grumbles. “You’ll do more harm than good like that, you will.”

Boromir bites back a hiss of pain when Legolas straightens his arm to expose the wound in his shoulder, and the Halflings wince in commiseration. 

“You should not have fought, with your wounds yet unhealed,” Legolas chides gently, as Aragorn presses athelas to the wound, its sweet smell wafting through the air. “You have undone all our hard work with your recklessness.” 

Boromir hangs his head. “I know. I only wished to…” _To atone. To do right by Gondor’s king, as his Steward. To see the destruction of Barad-dûr myself_. With these answers warring in his mind, Boromir instead says nothing at all, casting his gaze elsewhere, ashamed.

Aragorn, however, tips him a nod, one that tells Boromir he has an inkling of the answers in his heart. Winds new bandages around Boromir’s arm, gentle, and when he has finished, clasps Boromir’s uninjured shoulder. “You fought well, Boromir—you have naught to be ashamed of. Your father would have been proud.” He smiles, accentuating the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “And your brother.”

Boromir flexes his arm slowly, feeling having gradually returned to the limb as soon as Aragorn pressed leaves of the precious plant to his wound. “Proud that I am growing so well acquainted with the athelas plant, perhaps,” he says wryly, though a hint of a grin tugs at his mouth.

Aragorn chuckles, and as he moves to join the other healers in tending to the wounded, Legolas urges Boromir to rest. “You will see the White City again, my friend,” Legolas says. His smile is reassuring, kind. “But not resting will not hasten your return.”

There is sense in that, but even as Boromir settles uncomfortably on a makeshift cot that night, he cannot help but wonder if Faramir worries for him. How Faramir himself fares, alone in the healing halls but for the company of the healers and the other wounded. 

_Peace, brother_ , he thinks at Faramir. _I am coming home to you_. 

He repeats the thought in his mind, like a mantra, a prayer, hoping some tendril of the warmth and affection in his thoughts will span the distance between them. Will give Faramir a measure of comfort, and ease his heart. 

_I am coming home to you_ , he thinks, until his eyes drift closed, heavy with sleep, and slumber, dark and cool and forgiving, takes him.

~

Faramir burrows into the soft sheets of Boromir’s bed, biting back a whimper as he cocoons himself, safe, in his brother’s scent.

He has not gone to Boromir’s bed before this, unable to bear the thought of Boromir’s comforting smell fading from his sheets. Prefers to stay in the company of the others in the healing halls, where there are yet others haunted by the war, others who relive its horrors in their sleep. 

But Faramir gives in tonight. 

He _needs_ this—needs the comfort of Boromir’s presence, and proof of his existence, from the warm sheets wrapped around Faramir to the collection of keepsakes and trinkets in Boromir’s room. There is the pelt of a wild boar hanging on the south wall, one from their first hunt together, that Boromir said would do nicely in place of a tapestry. A ‘sword’ Faramir had carved himself when he was barely at Boromir’s waist, that was little more than a sharpened stake, standing in a place of honor in Boromir’s arms collection. And books on weapons, filling a shelf and a half, hastily borrowed from the archives of Minas Tirith, that Boromir has forgotten to return. 

Faramir winds himself further into the bedding now. Pulls the duvet over his shoulders, smiling to himself as his fingers press into familiar crimson cloth. He traces the embroidered white trim, gentle, before curling back around Boromir’s cloak, breathing deeply of the scent of leather and metal and earth. Catches a hint of his own soap in the fur, and chuckles at the palpable evidence of his frequency in Boromir’s company. 

Being surrounded by Boromir’s belongings eases Faramir’s troubled mind little, but enough for him to find rest, if only for a moment; he has had a fitful rest since Boromir’s words of a week ago, dying words quickly tempered by an overwhelming sense of comfort and warmth.

_Please_ , Faramir begs of the Valar, before slumber takes him. _Show me what has become of my brother_.

But ever does the present elude him; tonight, of all nights, his dreams show him not the past, not each of Boromir’s brushes with death, but comforting, soothing things. Things that Faramir wishes with all his might will come to pass instead. 

They are kind, merciful, dreams, showing him a future of laughter and love: of him and Boromir riding together, carefree, beyond the walls of Minas Tirith. Drawing up trade treaties and performing the tasks of the King’s Steward together. 

He dreams of being loved by Boromir in their bed, and of loving him in return. Of kissing him on the castle rampart. And the last vision, the sweetest yet, is of Boromir standing tall by Faramir’s side, silver streaking his temples. Of Faramir reaching out to tuck that silvered hair behind an ear, his own autumn-gold fading to the same shade, and Boromir caressing his cheek, as they smile and laugh and share the whispers of secret nothings they have been wont to do all their lives. 

Somehow the Valar have deduced Faramir’s most ardent desire, the secret he keeps hidden in his heart of hearts: of growing old with Boromir, after having spent a lifetime together. Of peaceful days to follow their life of war, when they can love as they wish, and live as they choose.

Faramir hoards each of these visions, each a small, precious seedling of hope, but he will not set much store by them; will not trust to what he sees in the dreams, until he has Boromir safe in his arms again. 

He knows the danger of wanting something, some _one_ so badly that he might fall prey to believing such falsehoods. Grasp at lingering threads of hope and delude himself with fantasy in place of a future he cannot bear, one without Boromir by his side. But he decides to put his faith in his brother, in the feelings of warmth and love and affection he is sure come from Boromir himself, from beyond the walls of Minas Tirith and eastward, from Mordor. 

His visions of their future are interrupted by the clear, triumphant ring of Minas Tirith’s trumpets, and Faramir could weep at the sound, the bright, resonant tones seeming so undeniably real. 

They signify that the army has succeeded, that it has returned. 

That Boromir has finally _come home_.

~

The clear ringing of silver trumpets, heralding the army’s return, is as sweet a sound as Boromir remembers.

He relishes the melody as he and the others ride through the Great Gate. Gazes in awe at the banners flying high from the White Tower of Ecthelion; each now bears the standard of the White Tree of Gondor, and the morning breeze unfurls each one in its full splendor, the sun’s light accentuating their deep cobalt hue.

“Well then,” Aragorn says, riding at Boromir’s left, as they make their way through the procession of cheering people gathered along their route. “It is as you hoped. Our paths have indeed led us here. And the Lords of Gondor have indeed returned.” He nods solemnly, before a wisp of a smile graces his lips. “We now only need the tower guard to take up that call, and your vision shall be fulfilled.”

Boromir tries to summon a smile but manages only the ghost of one; the cost for this final victory has been too high, the price for this peace too dear. All he can do is be grateful that the shadow of Mordor will no longer darken these lands. 

He had hoped to thank Frodo and Sam upon their return, to laud them for their courage, but they had been sent ahead to Minas Tirith, borne by the Great Eagles that Gandalf had led. The extra time is a boon, as Boromir needs to gather his courage to face the two Halflings he feels he has wronged—though he is sure Faramir would have some choice words to say about _that_. 

His brother has let him know, in no uncertain terms, that the so-called wrongdoing is a misconception on his part. Will not let him wallow in guilt or self-pity over it. 

The city’s people cheer as Aragorn leads the returning army home, but Boromir informs the others of his departure, turning from the procession before they reach the White Tower for a debriefing of the battle. Makes a quick excursion to his chambers to strip off his armour, already weighing him down and adding to his exhaustion, before he will return to the healing halls.

He knows he will find all the hero’s welcome he needs in Faramir’s arms. 

It had taken all of Boromir’s self-restraint to keep from galloping across the Pelennor Fields, where they had made camp the night before, to Minas Tirith, where he knew Faramir would be awaiting his return. He hastens now toward his chambers, hoping to divest himself of his armor quickly, that he may catch Faramir while he is still resting in the Houses. May revel in his brother’s full embrace, warm and encompassing, when he sees Faramir again. 

It comes as a surprise then, when he finds Faramir neither in the throngs of people welcoming them home, nor in the healing chambers, but asleep in _his bed_. 

Faramir is huddled safely under the duvet, and when Boromir lifts the edge of it gingerly, he finds Faramir curled around his cloak, his face nestled in the soft fur, like a baby mouse keeping warm.

Boromir smiles to himself, thinking Faramir’s face looks softer, more vulnerable in his sleep. Wants nothing more than to slip into bed and fit himself into the space behind Faramir, to soak in his warmth and wrap Faramir in his arms, secure. As it is, Boromir is still smudged with dirt and grit from the trip home. He would not sully Faramir’s soft, pale skin. Would not mar his clean, golden curls.

He kneels by the bed, allowing himself to card only the cleanest fingers through Faramir’s hair, gentle. Lets the fine strands slide from his fingertips, spilling like a spool unraveled of red-gold thread on the pillow. 

Faramir stirs at the touch, shifting and blinking blearily, but at the sight of Boromir, his hand darts out, catching Boromir’s wrist. Squeezes tightly, as if not daring to believe this is more than a dream. “Boromir?” he whispers, and Boromir’s heart nearly breaks at the naked _hope_ in his voice.

“Yes.” Boromir laces the fingers of their clasped hands together. “ _Yes_ —” he manages, before Faramir throws his arms around Boromir’s waist and embraces him, hard. Buries his face in Boromir’s chest, his belly, knitting arms tighter around Boromir than he can bear, but he lets Faramir have this, lets him have the assurance that he is safe, that he has come home. 

“Faramir,” he says softly, letting an arm settle around Faramir’s shoulders. Rests his other hand in Faramir’s hair, stroking, petting, comforting.

When Faramir finally loosens his grip, frees Boromir from his deeply possessive grasp, he allows Boromir all of a moment to sit level with him on the bed, before they are hugging again immediately, tight, neither of them letting go. Surging into each other for a kiss that is hot and hard and wet, each brush of Faramir’s lips against his an aching tenderness Boromir has sorely missed. He snarls fingers into Faramir’s hair, savoring its softness, its scent, as Faramir claws at the shoulders of his armour, both of them anchoring themselves in the ways they know how.

“The worst is behind us now, little brother,” Boromir says. He buries his face in Faramir’s hair, breathing in the sweet scent of fig soap and the healers’ mint salve. Lets his fingertips trace the ringlets that curl at the nape of Faramir’s neck. “There will be other skirmishes, to drive Orcs away from the surrounding lands, but Barad-dûr itself has fallen. The worst of the battles are behind us.”

“Good,” Faramir hisses, his hand twisting tighter into Boromir’s hair. His other hand he slips beneath Boromir’s cuirass, seeking skin and warmth and further proof of Boromir’s presence. “ _Good_.” 

There had been moments, Boromir reflects, when fighting the Orcs in their near-hopeless battle, that he thought he would not have this again; would not feel Faramir’s fingers in his hair, or taste the sweetness of his mouth, like honeyed wine. Would not hear the easy cadence of his laughter, relieved.

Now, at the sight and sound and touch of Faramir, Boromir finally feels as though he has truly come home, because Faramir _is_ home.

When they finally let go, Boromir can see the anxiety and worry melt away from Faramir’s features. 

“Thank the Valar,” Faramir murmurs, “for bringing you home to me.” He clasps Boromir’s face in his palms, warm and rough. Traces the crease in Boromir’s brow, born from worry and happiness both, before smiling, sheepish. “Forgive me, Boromir. I should have been the first at the Great Gate to welcome you home, but I…” He trails off, embarrassed, his gaze settling on the evidence of having fallen asleep in Boromir’s bed. 

Boromir takes in the sight of rumpled sheets, remembering the way Faramir had been curled around his cloak, and grins. “No matter,” he says. “My brother in my bed is all the welcome I require.” He delights in the pleasing flush that rises from Faramir’s neck and fills his cheeks with color at that. Thinks to kiss each spot of crimson from his cheeks and see just how far down that cherry flush will spread.

“It is a poor excuse,” Faramir says, shaking his head. “I even heard the sound of trumpets, but thought it was part of my dream.”

Boromir pinches the side of Faramir’s belly, gentle, and laughs when his brother yelps in surprise. “This is no _dream_.”

“Yes, yes,” Faramir says hastily, “I see the error of my assumptions now.” He pauses in his work of helping Boromir unbuckle his cuirass, thoughtful. “Have you any pressing engagements, with your friends and comrades?”

Boromir shakes his head, lifting his arms as Faramir tugs the cuirass off and sets it on a nearby chair. “They plan to see to the wounded in the Houses of Healing. I would not be missed for at least another day.” He lets Faramir undo the lacings of the tunic he had worn beneath his cuirass and divest him of it, laying it atop his armour. Pulls his own trousers and boots off as Faramir shifts his way back into bed. 

“Perfect,” Faramir sighs, his feet tangling into warm sheets as he holds out a palm in entreaty. “Come to bed with me, then.”

Boromir hesitates, hovering at the edge of the bed; he knows how he must look—haggard and worn, his underclothes caked with dust and filth from the journey home—but his mind is made up for him when Faramir grips his wrist and tugs him into the bed. Wraps arms around him all the same, holding on tight as if Boromir is something precious and dear. 

In the face of this acceptance, Boromir slides his arms beneath Faramir’s tunic and around his waist, sinking fingers into warm skin. Lets Faramir circle his shoulders with his arms as they settle into each others’ spaces, hips and knees and toes slotting together naturally, perfect.

He chuckles when he finds Faramir pressing soft, feathery kisses to his brow. Trying to coax him into ardor with tiny, nibbling kisses to his lip. 

“Faramir,” Boromir manages, between a few sleepy, open-mouthed kisses. “I must rest now.” He is battle-weary and soul-tired, and though he wishes for nothing more than to meet Faramir’s kisses with the same ardent fire, he cannot bring himself to move another aching muscle. To stay awake for what Faramir wishes him to do. “Wait for me, for just a little longer.” He touches a kiss to the tip of Faramir’s nose. “I promise I shall make it worth your while.”

Faramir frowns, and the sight of his mouth curled so in displeasure, resembling a pout, makes Boromir laugh. 

“You should not frown so,” Boromir says, grinning. He presses a thumb to the furrow at Faramir’s brow. Smoothes it out with careful, brushing strokes. “It will make you look old well before your time.” 

Faramir huffs a laugh and pinches Boromir’s thigh in retaliation. Tugs at a lock of Boromir’s hair, already starting to grey at the edges. “I will show _you_ who is old,” he says, though he quiets when Boromir presses fingers to Faramir’s shoulder. 

“When I have the strength,” Boromir declares, “I shall kiss you here—” he touches fingers to Faramir’s chest, “—here,” a light press to his belly, “—and _here_ ,” he finishes, slipping his fingers, daring, just past the waist of Faramir’s breeches. 

“Then you had best recover quickly, that you may keep your word,” says Faramir, his laughter a warm wisp of air against Boromir’s skin. He presses a sweet, lingering kiss to Boromir’s mouth, his lips soft as he cups Boromir’s cheek in his palm. Opens his arms wider for Boromir to nestle into, snug.

Just as Boromir starts drifting off, however, Faramir’s fingers brush the shallow score of a blade, right at the crest of his hip. 

“This is new,” Faramir says, frowning, as Boromir sucks in a sharp breath. He traces the edges of the wound, careful. “You should have it treated at the Houses.”

Boromir shifts minutely into Faramir’s side, every movement causing an ache anew in his already battered body. He is too tired to make a long protest. “It can wait,” he says. “I, however, cannot.” He nudges at Faramir’s shoulder, hoping his request for Faramir to simply hold him makes it through. That Faramir will realize he values their time together far more than tending to his wounds at the healing halls.

Faramir _hmms_ thoughtfully, before drawing Boromir tighter into his arms, and they lie together, silent, safe and warm. Breathe each other’s air, slowly, softly, as they find peace in each other’s arms.

For the first time, Boromir dares to dream about more than just hungry Orcs, with their greedy, gaping maws; more than the terrible Uruk-hai emblazoned with the White Hand of Saruman; he dreams of Gondor restored to its former glory, its cities once more the bastions of light, and beauty, and music. Of Minas Tirith, his home, its white walls and towers awash with the sun’s light. Of the White Tree and its first pale blossoms of hope, a herald of peace, and life, and renewal. 

Above all else, he dreams of Faramir, his eyes finally free of the shadows that haunt them, alight instead with mirth. Of his red-gold hair fading into an ageless gray, the same shade as Boromir’s own, as they stand together beneath the flourishing White Tree. He hears his brother’s laughter, coupled with his own, the sound of true happiness— _theirs_. 

And while prophetic dreams have ever been Faramir’s realm, Boromir looks into those dreams, at the future they might have together, and allows himself to _hope_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OST:**  
>  \- A Time to Rest and Heal: [ Healing Winds – Junichi Nakatsuru (Soul Calibur III ver.)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIvyEZ5oWTY)  
> \- Boromir, At the Gates of Minas Tirith: [A Hero Comes Home – Robin Wright-Penn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXQVKx0IKN4)  
> \- Reuniting with Faramir: [My Home, Sweet Home - Final Fantasy V](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDBxRuv4p74)  
> \- Dreams of Hope: [Saya’s Joy – Mark Mancina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lF5YqK1G6a4)


	10. The Lords of Gondor

~

After several days dedicated to healing—Faramir had _insisted_ Boromir have his wounds seen to—and lying about in bed with Faramir, sharing kisses, careful touches, and more than that on occasion, they finally return to the world at large.

Aragorn sets aside time enough for the citizens and soldiers of Minas Tirith to honor their dead. Raises a toast in the Merethrond for those who had fought bravely until the end, a drink to their fallen comrades. 

Both Faramir and Boromir take that time to remember their father. To mourn him, and the life that he led, such that it was, until they are once again burdened with the responsibility of their city’s well-being.

Soon after, Aragorn sets Boromir the task, among other things, of searching for trades from which they can obtain the stone and brick and mortar needed to rebuild the city, entrusting him with the myriad duties of a Steward almost immediately.

“I expect you will have no trouble spearheading agreements with the other realms?” Aragorn had said. 

“Of course,” Boromir replied, honored that he was to take on the duties of the Steward without another question asked. He had spent countless hours, when not patrolling or protecting the city, in Denethor’s councils, learning, watching, and waiting.

In truth, however, both he and his brother shoulder the responsibilities together, working with the city’s people and craftsmen to see to Minas Tirith’s repairs. Negotiating trade treaties with envoys from both the realms of Elves and Dwarves.

Faramir navigates them through the appointments with representatives from Mirkwood and Erebor—both places having fared better than Gondor, despite the armies Sauron sent to the north—that require tact, diplomacy, and a keen knowledge of both races’ histories. Meanwhile, Boromir steers them through the tasks that call for strategic planning, both of them the Steward in everything but name.

They have hardly a moment to themselves now, and the preparations for Aragorn’s impending coronation does not help matters. 

“Boromir?” Faramir says, finding Boromir as he paces the council chambers, scowling at a schematic of Minas Tirith’s outstanding repairs, tacked carefully to the wall. He has just secured Legolas’ promise that he will speak to his father about importing the produce from Minas Tirith’s next harvest, but remains at a standstill about finding the materials to repair the Great Gate. It had been savaged in the last battle by the Orcs’ fiery battering ram, and a temporary barrier has been erected in place of it, the sentry around it now doubled for safety.

“What is it?” Boromir asks. He feels something loosen in his chest at the sight of Faramir, and a slow, soothing warmth spreads down his spine when Faramir smiles and places a hand on his shoulder.

“I have heard your friend Gimli mention a vast resource of mithril in the caves below Helm’s Deep. I should think, that once he and his people settle there and mine that resource, they would be open to trade with us—their craftsmanship and metals in return for our grain and a share of our produce. If,” Faramir adds with a grin, “you have not already promised it all to Mirkwood.”

With an immense sigh of relief at Faramir’s solution for the Great Gate, Boromir graces him with a look, one full of warmth and affection. “I have often thought,” he says, quiet, “that perhaps you should have been the firstborn. That you should have been given the title for the Steward of Gondor.”

From birth, Boromir had known the title would one day be his, along with all its responsibilities—had coveted it _dearly_ —but he finds now an easy harmony in sharing the burden with his brother. Faramir has indeed been his strength, as their mother had foreseen, and Boromir only hopes that his brother draws the same comfort from _him_.

“We cannot both be Stewards, brother,” Faramir laughs, his hand sliding down to rest easy on Boromir’s forearm. It is as much as he dares, in the common chambers of the White Tower, where any of the maids, guards, or foreign dignitaries could pass by. “There can only be one Steward of Gondor, and I…I would not begrudge you that honor.” He squeezes Boromir’s arm, warm, reassuring.

“There will be a way,” Boromir insists. He clasps Faramir’s forearm in turn. “Perhaps Aragorn will consider a joint Stewardship. Our king is not so blind that he would turn away the counsel of two men who could aid him in different areas equally well.”

Faramir looks doubtful still, but the smallest twitch of a smile tugs at his lips and he nods thoughtfully.

“Besides,” adds Boromir, circling a thumb over the crook of Faramir’s elbow, where his pulse point should be, “did not Isildur and his brother Anárion rule Gondor in a joint kingship for long years? Perhaps the idea is not so far-fetched after all!”

It is just as well then, that when Boromir finally has the chance to introduce his brother to Aragorn days later, Aragorn surprises them with an announcement of his own. 

“Faramir!” Aragorn nods, his eyes sparking with a new warmth, a light evident since he had taken up the mantle of Gondor’s king. “I have heard a great deal about you, both from your brother, and other members of the Fellowship.” He pauses to tip a nod at Boromir, smiling. “But mostly from your brother.”

Boromir can see Faramir’s feet shift self-consciously, but he has the good grace not to flush at Aragorn’s compliment. “Good things, I hope?” Faramir asks, and when Aragorn nods, he laughs, before remembering himself and hastily sketching a bow. “It is well to finally meet you, my Lord.”

Aragorn clears his throat, modest, before continuing. “Of that matter…I know the coronation has yet to happen, but as your work together has been exemplary thus far, I plan to make an announcement: that all those from Denethor’s line shall have the title of Steward to the King. That you may both continue to serve in your father’s stead, in a dual Stewardship, sharing the responsibilities that come with it.”

At their stunned silence, he adds quickly, “If, however, you have any qualms regarding my decision, it would be no trouble at all to create a new official office for one of you—”

“ _No_ , no qualms at all,” Boromir and Faramir say immediately, nearly in unison, and they share a smile between them, of equal and unspoken understanding. 

Aragorn must see something in their expressions, some gesture of theirs that is endearingly identical, because he smiles and clasps a hand to each of their shoulders. “Good!” he says, beaming. “Not for all the power or gold in this realm would I part you two any longer.”

They are left wondering what he means by that, but before they can question Aragorn’s meaning, he has moved onto the subject of granting them lands for their services—that he plans to bestow upon them the princedom of Ithilien, and if they wish it, the lordship of Emyn Arnen—before a page arrives to inform them that there is to be a reconvening with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills regarding trade tariffs. 

Aragorn chooses this moment to conveniently make his exit, saying that he will leave the matter in their capable hands.

When Boromir releases a long-suffering sigh, Faramir laughs and claps him on the back. “You did not think being Steward was going to be all heroic battles and Orc-ruin, did you?”

Boromir snorts. “I did not. But I am glad you are with me in this, little brother.” He pauses, thoughtful, and clasps Faramir’s forearm, all warmth and affection in this long-familiar gesture. “As in all things.”

“Of course,” says Faramir, solemn now. He squeezes Boromir’s shoulder in turn. “I would not have it otherwise.”

~

The day Aragorn is to be crowned, the sky is the clearest blue, with nary a cloud to be seen.

Both Boromir and Faramir are glad for the decision they made to hold the coronation before the walls of Minas Tirith on this auspicious day; they had entertained, at first, the idea of holding it within the highest circle of the city, in the presence of the White Tree. But seeing now the masses of people, their guests numbering in the tens of thousands—those from within the city and those who have flocked here from all corners of the land—the city’s seventh circle could not have accommodated crowds of this size. Of this sheer number.

Knights of Gondor and of Rohan have established a wide berth starting from what once was the Great Gate for the proceedings, and two opposing lines now stand sentinel, keeping the crowds at bay for the celebrations. A cluster of the soldiers under Boromir’s command form a barrier over the Gate, and Boromir and Faramir themselves stand before them, accompanied by their friends, Húrin—named Warden of the Keys, who is to let Aragorn into the city and take his place as king—and Éomer and Éowyn of Rohan.

“Well?” Boromir teases, when he finds Faramir fidgeting at a loose thread in his robes, the garment soft and dark, as if woven from the night sky itself. He nudges Faramir with his hip. “Can I count on you not to forget your lines from a bout of childish nervousness?”

“If I can count on you not to forget your lines from _old age_ ,” Faramir returns deftly, elbowing him in the ribs. 

The exchange earns them a reproving glance from Húrin. Éomer, for his part, casts his eyes skyward and sighs, while Éowyn gives them both a knowing smile, one Boromir hopes is more for the witty nature of their banter, than empathy for the nature of their relationship.

It is just as well that at that moment, Aragorn appears, accompanied by Gandalf and their four Halfling friends. Frodo and Sam incline their heads respectfully in their direction, while Merry and Pippin nod cheerfully at them, and Boromir cannot help but beam back, wide and bright and genuine.

Aragorn nods at each of them in turn, starting first with Boromir and ending with Éomer. He looks resplendent in his plated armour, shining, silver, a night-dark mantle draped across his shoulders, its edges embroidered with intricate golden flowers. With this raiment alone, he looks every inch the king Gondor has waited for. The captain Boromir has sworn to follow.

A single, solitary trumpet blast sounds out, and a hush falls upon the crowd. 

Boromir kneels, with Faramir following suit at his side, before Aragorn. Presents with both hands the white rod, hallmark of the Stewards, that their father had held for long years. “The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office,” he says, bowing his head.

Now that the king is restored, it is only right that the people see the symbol of the Stewards’ power returned. The thought does not stay Boromir’s fear that Aragorn will indeed dismiss him from his service, however, and he dreads the words _I release you from your duty_ , so much that a palpable tremor runs through his hands. He feels Faramir’s eyes upon him, steady, as if to say, _I am with you brother, however Aragorn’s decision plays out_. Knows his brother would reach out for him, if he could. 

Boromir’s hands tremble for but a moment longer before Aragorn takes the rod from him, gentle, and his hands close around Boromir’s, steadying them. 

“The office of the Stewards of Gondor is not ended,” Aragorn announces for all to hear, reassuring. “It shall be yours and your heirs, as long as my line shall last.” He smiles down at the two of them, kind, and holds out the white rod, somehow beautiful, _renewed_ , in his hands. “Rise, Boromir, Faramir, sons of Denethor, Stewards of Gondor. Rise now, and do your duty.”

With this, Aragorn has fulfilled his promise to them, has made their dual Stewardship official, and Boromir and Faramir share a smile, equally bright and wide in their joy, as they take back the rod from Aragorn. 

When Boromir has risen to his feet once more, his voice rings out, resonant, above the crowds. “People of Gondor,” he begins. “Hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold—” he bows his head toward Aragorn, respectful, “—one has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

At this announcement of Aragorn’s lineage, Boromir pauses, the memory of when he last heard those words rising to mind. 

_He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn_ , Legolas had said, when the Fellowship had gathered for the first time in Rivendell. _You owe him your allegiance_. 

Boromir wishes now he could swallow his callous words from back then, of _Gondor has no king—Gondor needs no king_ , in shame. But what was said has been said, and he has since proved he believes the very antithesis of those thoughtless words, in actions and in deed. 

Faramir nods at him now, an extra push of courage, and Boromir finds his voice again.

“He is Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor. Captain of the Host of the West. Bearer of the Star of the North and wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing. This is Elessar, of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor.” Boromir takes a breath, before bellowing, “Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?”

The roaring din of approval among the gathered people is deafening, and Aragorn’s deepest smile at the sound of it warms Boromir’s heart.

Faramir stands forward now, bold, brave, and raises his hand for the crowd’s silence. When the crowd has calmed once more, Faramir speaks, his voice clear like the brightest bells, filling Boromir’s chest with pride and affection. “People of Gondor,” he says. “Today, using the authority of the Steward, I have had brought here the crown of Eärnur, the last king. In the hopes that this crown shall sit upon a king’s brow once more.”

With that, Faramir withdraws to Boromir’s side again, and they take their place among friends and fellow soldiers, of Gondor and of Rohan. Boromir is grateful that Faramir had volunteered to take the role of presenting the crown; with his usual tact, Faramir has gracefully sidestepped mention of the custom of the prior king passing on the crown to his heir, or failing that, the new king having to wrench it from the hands of his father in the tombs. 

Four guards, dressed in the armour of the Citadel, step forward now, bearing a black casket rimmed with silver. They present it to Gandalf, whom Aragorn has chosen to set the crown upon his head in place of his father. Gandalf opens the casket, and from it lifts the ancient crown. 

It is a silver circlet, the prow and stern of which take the shape of a seabird’s wings, and the band of which is carved with interlaced patterns, intricate. Set in the crown’s high prow is the White Tree, in an accent of gold, and adorning each side of the crown are stars—token symbols of the seven stars of Elendil and his captains. 

Gandalf smiles, sage, and sets the crown upon Aragorn’s head. “Now come the days of the King!” he announces. “May they be blessed.”

Aragorn turns to the gathered people, then. “This day does not belong to one man,” he says, humble, “but to _all_. Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace.”

Together, Boromir and Faramir watch as their king takes a breath and intones a verse:

_Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien_  
_Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar_  
_tenn' Ambar-metta_

The words seem compelling, and the melody otherworldly and fey. Boromir only recognizes the language as Quenya from the tomes Faramir would share with him in their younger days, and he sees now the curiously fond smile curving Faramir’s lips.

“It is a beautiful song,” Boromir offers, feeling boorish and uncultured. Surely, if anyone knows the meaning, the importance of Aragorn’s words, it would be Faramir, and he feels a measure of shame at not having listened more closely to Faramir’s eager rambling all those years ago.

“It _is_ ,” agrees Faramir, and his grin curves all the wider at Boromir’s sullen expression. He takes Boromir’s hand in his, under cover of the banners and knights surrounding them, careful to hide their joined hands within their cloaks. “It is the Oath of Elendil,” he explains. “The words he spoke when first he came out of the Sea, on the wings of the wind. It means, ‘Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.’”

“Ah,” Boromir smiles, in understanding. “That is beautiful, indeed.”

And as Aragorn nears them in his procession before he enters the city, Boromir and Faramir bow honourably to him together, side by side as they have always hoped to. In matching ceremonial robes and cloaks, the borders and collars of which are embroidered with golden flowers, the traditional finery of the officials of Gondor.

Faramir’s are a rich, midnight blue, his garments glittering and darkening both as the light shines upon it, reminiscent of the sea against the night sky. Boromir’s are the deepest crimson, the fiery red of a sky before the sun dips below the horizon. In this, their robes match their temperaments well, Boromir being the quicker to action, fierce when there is need for it, and Faramir being ever perceptive, with his careful, well-thought out ways. Both brothers bear breastplates proudly emblazoned with the White Tree of Gondor.

The afternoon breeze brings with it the fragrance of the White Tree’s new blossoms, from high above the city. Scatters the petals, beautiful, across the crowds and in the path of Aragorn’s procession, as he reunites with his love, the Lady Arwen, hidden as she was within the host of Elves.

And if, in the ensuing clamor of celebration, Boromir slips his hand into Faramir’s once more and threads his fingers through the spaces between, no one is the wiser.

~

Later, when nearly all the ale has been broken out, and every other drink in Minas Tirith’s cellars besides, Boromir pours both Faramir and himself a generous portion of the wine he has been hoarding in his rooms. For an occasion such as this. Aragorn has by now entered the Citadel, and the King’s standard, of seven stars set about the White Tree and a winged crown, flies high from the White Tower of Ecthelion. It is a symbol of hope, a declaration that Gondor’s king has finally come _home_.

“Remember today, little brother,” says Boromir. He tips their steins together with an audible _clink_ , as they stand beneath the flower-laden branches of the White Tree. “Today—today life is good.” It is an echo of his words from so long ago, but he would have Faramir remember these words in happiness, not the sorrow from their parting before.

Faramir smiles into his drink, and upon finding that no one is watching them, despite how crowded the courtyard is, he leans in close. “Boromir,” he says. “From now on, _every_ day—as long as I have it with you—life is good.” He fixes Boromir with a heated look, one full of such promise and good things to come, that it makes Boromir think he can weather all the dark times, the dark places of the world, if only he is with Faramir. 

His brother has always made him _want_ more, _dare_ more, and this moment is no exception.

“Oh,” Boromir blinks. He swallows hard as he nods, in complete agreement with Faramir’s sentiment. Faramir has always had a way with words, but even now, in the distant presence of their friends, their comrades, he still knows just what to say, to stir that swell of affection in Boromir’s chest. “ _Yes_.”

After, when they find a space for themselves, secreted away in a little-used chamber in the White Tower, Faramir pins him to the wall, kissing him again and again, hard and deep and _good_. Presses his tongue into Boromir’s mouth, to taste, to plunder, before yielding sweetly under Boromir’s conquest in turn. 

In his haste to reciprocate, Boromir ends up spilling his wine on himself, and never has he been more thankful than in that moment that his finest robes are the color of the wine, a velvet deep and rich and red.

~

The banquet following the coronation that evening is a boisterous affair, the Merethrond rife with the sound of song and laughter, and the cooks delve at last into stores of food meant to last the winters, to produce a feast worth remembering. Each table in the grand hall is laden with golden biscuits and hot, buttered rolls, platters of roast mutton and fowl with rich gravy for the flavoring, and dishes piled high with everything from shelled peas and sweet corn to seasoned squash and potatoes. An abundance of ripe cheeses and succulent sausages completes each tableau, alongside desserts of luscious berry pies, frosted cookies, and cream cakes bordered by cinnamon spice tarts.

And when both Boromir and Faramir have had their fill of the roasted meats and cheese and wine—the drink courtesy of the Elves’ own endless supplies—a single, reverberating beat of a drum sounds, signifying the start of a dance.

Several stifling court dances follow, before the other soldiers and the lasses in their company break into some of the more common folk dances, and the hall is once again lively, filled with a wild and raucous joy. 

Boromir enjoys himself well enough, amusing himself with the surprising grace of Elves and Dwarves both, and clapping in time with the music, spinning the ladies that join him—noblewomen and relatives of visiting dignitaries—briefly in the dance this way and that.

He is surprised to find, however, that on the last turn, instead of his arms circling yet another of the numerous, nameless maidens, his arms are full of Faramir. Finds that he does not very much mind at all. 

A quick glance at the darkened corners of the hall proves his suspicions correct: one of the women has indeed slipped away, leaving them at odd numbers. Her hurried, unannounced departure could perhaps be attributed to—

“A tryst with a lover,” Faramir muses, his voice pitched low, and Boromir could swear, _inviting_.

“Oh?” Boromir grins, as they press their palms together and prance a circle around each other. “And have you any of your own to attend? Perhaps with one of the maidens you may have taken a fancy to?”

Faramir worries his lip with teeth for all but a moment, thinking, before breaking into a sly smile. “Why yes, there _was_ one that caught my fancy,” he says. He takes Boromir’s hands in his for a circular turn, before Boromir must wind his arms around Faramir’s waist again. 

“Ah,” Boromir says, his throat dry, as they make their way across the floor, in careful, controlled pirouettes. A curious pang of jealousy throbs in his chest, but he would not begrudge his brother another lover; he knows he has no right to possess Faramir forever, to hoard Faramir’s time and love and life for his own.

Even if another part of him _wants_ to. Wants to sink claws into Faramir, to claim him for his own, for as long as Faramir will let him. 

“ _Boromir_ ,” Faramir reprimands, laughing, when Boromir misses a step in their dance, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground. Leans in, his lips near enough to brush the shell of Boromir’s ear, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine. “There is one who caught my fancy,” Faramir says. “With hair the hue of molten honey, and a smile that rivals the brightness of the sun. Eyes the color of the wild sea in a storm.” He smiles then, the edges of his mouth soft and fond. “How could I _not_ be captivated?”

Boromir snorts, arching a brow in disbelief. “It was only her visage that captivated you?” Certainly his brother cannot be faulted for being drawn to such fine features, but he hopes there is more substance to his attraction than that. 

Faramir’s lips tilt into a wider grin. “Not _only_.” His eyes are alight with mirth now. “I would tell you of her laugh—a pleasing, low baritone, like the soft beat of a snare drum in song. Her hands, though calloused and rough, that could heal any hurt, and calm any fear. And then…”

Having furrowed his brow at the word _baritone_ to describe the lady’s laugh, Boromir frowns. “Are you speaking of one of the maids? One of the healers, perhaps?” He knows of no other Faramir could know the touch of, in healing his hurts, and soothing his fears. When he looks into Faramir’s eyes, he finds his brother’s eyes suddenly brighter than they should be, as if they were rimmed with tears. “Faramir?” he asks, careful. “Are you all right?”

The music has ended by now, the pleasant strumming of harp strings and delicate notes of flutes fading into the night, and Boromir ushers Faramir to a secluded section of the hall, away from the guests. Away from whoever has reduced his brother to this, heartbroken and lovelorn.

“And _then_ ,” Faramir charges on, as if he has not heard Boromir, “he had the gall to take on a journey to a place none had heard of, save in the old texts and legends. To leave me for months without word of his whereabouts, until I received a sign, a token of his, sundered in two. 

“I thought him dead,” rasps Faramir, his fingers closing around Boromir’s hands, tight. “And all I could think was that I would no longer know the touch of your calloused hands. The sound of your low, resonant laugh, that would let me weather even the darkest of times.” He swallows audibly, before his hands slide into the hair at the base of Boromir’s neck, twisting, not tight enough to hurt, but hard enough to be possessive and angry and afraid. “I feared I would never again see the sun’s light on your hair, the color of the honey we would steal from the kitchens as children. I…I could not bear the loss of you. Could not see a future without you in it.”

Boromir swallows hard around the lump that has formed in his throat. What began in jest between them has taken a different turn; has changed from joke to confession, Faramir’s pronouns of _her_ drifting slowly into _you_ and _me_ and _we_. 

“Oh, _Faramir_ ,” he says, his heart lodged in his throat. He folds his brother into his arms, letting Faramir fit himself into the hollow of his neck. Kisses the crown of his head, making sure Faramir knows with every touch and every kiss that he is here, he is safe, he is _alive_. 

“Even when you returned, from that fateful place in my vision, yet another battle would take you from me.” Faramir shakes his head, the furrow of his brow and the draw of his mouth relaying his anguish, subtle as the signs are. “I would have gone with you, Boromir, if I could.” His hands clench tight in the fabric of Boromir’s cloak, trembling. “I would have gone with you to the end. Would have been by your side for every battle, and every hurt. I would have shared in each of your defeats and your triumphs the same.”

“And you will,” says Boromir, gentle, as he loops his arms around Faramir’s waist, hitching him in, tight. “You will yet.”

From this, Boromir knows it will only ever be Faramir who breaks him open like this, lays him out open and raw, his admission striking a chord deep within him. Just as he knows they will be the only ones to put each other back together. 

He lets Faramir crush their mouths against each other, to reaffirm that they are safe, that they are together. Lets Faramir bully his way between his legs and push him against the wall of the alcove, to kiss him again and again, like a drowning man desperate for air, until Faramir’s thirst for him has been slaked, until he has had his fill of kisses, his share of promises that they shall not be parted again. 

Until Faramir’s hands stop trembling and he simply leans against Boromir for support, content to revel in the safety and comfort his brother provides. 

“Do you feel ready to rejoin the festivities?” Boromir asks, when Faramir’s shaky breaths have evened out, steadier, quiet. “I believe I just heard the sound of another barrel of liquor rolled out for rejoicing.” He quirks a grin at Faramir. Perhaps they can find time for another stein of wine or two with their comrades, before he takes Faramir to bed, to calm him and soothe his fears.

“In a moment,” says Faramir. He nestles into Boromir’s warmth, his arms looped about Boromir’s waist and joined at the small of his back. “Right now, I only want _you_.”

Boromir chuckles. “Then you shall have me, little brother, for as long as you wish.”

“Forever,” says Faramir, his voice sounding too small and vulnerable by half. He digs fingers into Boromir’s cloak, possessive, greedy, allows Boromir to do the same. “I wish to have you _forever_.”

“Forever, then,” Boromir assures him, tilting his mouth to meet Faramir’s in a kiss that is equal parts hungry and eager. He touches his tongue to Faramir’s, tasting the last traces of mulled wine and honeyed fruit, and closes his arms around Faramir’s shoulders tighter, fingers sinking deeper into the soft velvet-blue of his cloak, the way he has always wanted to. “As you wish.”

~

By the time both Boromir and Faramir are ready to join the others, Damrod and several fellow Rangers and soldiers are already deep in their cups, sprawled in compromising positions along benches and beneath tables. They manage to rouse Anborn and Mablung enough to drink to their fallen comrades, as well as drink a toast to their new king and the future—though Éomer, joining them midway with another tankard in hand despite the ruddiness of his cheeks, jests that they should save some drink for Aragorn’s wedding, which is to take place later.

Boromir is standing near a great barrel of wine, wondering whether to ply his brother with more drink to encourage the pleasing flush spreading across Faramir’s face, or to simply give him _water_ before he faints from an excess of drink, when Faramir nudges him low in his side.

“What is it?” Boromir smiles as he leans in, wondering which endearment Faramir will tease him with this time. What sensual sentiments he will whisper in Boromir’s ear, filthy, provocative and all kinds of intoxicating. The last had involved a detailed description of what he planned to do with Boromir and the set of little-used furs in his room, and Faramir had made it quite clear who was to be in charge for _that_ —

“Oh,” Boromir says, quiet, as he follows Faramir’s gaze. Looks away just as quickly, before he catches the eye of Frodo and Sam, who are assessing the quality of smoked meats for consumption at a neighboring table. Sam assesses the cuts of meat rather voraciously, while Frodo only looks on and laughs.

“Go on,” says Faramir. “I shall be here if you need me, but I know there is something you have wished to say to them. For quite some time.”

“Perhaps another time,” Boromir hedges quickly. “I would not seek to disrupt their merriment for the sake of my…” _My peace of mind_ , he thinks. _I am not ready to face them again, it is too soon_. “Faramir, I cannot—

Faramir cups Boromir’s elbow, steadying his arm. He had not known his hands were shaking until Faramir supported him, had taken the stein of wine from him and set it down. 

“I have spoken with Frodo,” says Faramir, “and I think you shall find him receptive to what you have to say. He wishes dearly for it, in fact.” With a smile, he rubs circles into Boromir’s back, warm and encouraging. Pushes him in the Halflings’ direction, gentle.

With Faramir at his back and the assurance that he will be there should Boromir need him, Boromir takes the first steps toward Frodo and Sam, his heart beating double time in his chest. 

“Boromir!” Frodo cries happily, as Boromir nears. Sam sets his platter of meats down for long enough to angle his body protectively in front of Frodo, and nods guardedly at Boromir. “I didn’t see you with the others, when I woke near the healing halls,” Frodo says, a frown tugging at his mouth. “Where were you?”

“I did not think you would—I did not think my presence was wanted,” Boromir admits, unable to meet Frodo’s eyes. From a distance, he hears Faramir subtly clear his throat, and he raises his head to meet Frodo’s gaze again. “Frodo, Sam. There is…there is something I have wished to say to you, for long months.”

Something softens in Sam’s expression, in the lines of his mouth and the corners of his eyes. “I’ll give you two a moment alone,” Sam offers, turning to Frodo. “But I shan’t be far away.”

Boromir smiles, touched. “No, Sam—what I have to say can be spoken to both of you. I have no need for secrecy or pretense.”

“It’s just, seems to me you’ve been working up to this awful long,” says Sam. He pauses, thoughtful. “And I’d like to let you see it through, if you understand me.” Before Boromir can offer his thanks, Sam tips them a smart nod each and heads to a neighboring table, to join Merry and Pippin in their tipsy carousing.

Not one to waste the opportunity both Faramir and Sam have created for them, Boromir pushes onward. “Frodo,” he tries, “I—for all that has passed between us—you have my sincerest apologies.” Boromir draws in a soft, labored breath. “I am glad you had the fortitude to stand against me then, at Amon Hen. That you did what I could not, and led the ring to its destruction in the fires of Mount Doom.

“But I know not what I may do, to atone for my actions against you back then.” He steps closer to Frodo, in earnest, his voice hushed. “If there is, you need only speak, and I would do it—”

“Boromir,” Frodo says, quiet, and in his voice Boromir can hear not pity, but such _empathy_ that a tear slips out, unbidden, cresting the curve of Boromir’s cheekbone and gliding down his jaw. “You were not yourself that day. None in the Ring’s thrall ever are. It took your desires and twisted them against you—yes,” Frodo nods, at Boromir’s look of surprise. “Faramir has since spoken to me of the burden you carried, one far greater than the ring itself. How the burden of not only restoring Gondor to its former glory, but protecting the city—your people, your _home_ —fell to you.”

Boromir swallows, hard. It _had_ been such a burden to carry, _such_ a weight upon his shoulders, one he had only been able to bear for so long because of the quiet strength and support that Faramir had given him. Even then, it had not been enough to save their people, their comrades, against the ever-growing tide of Mordor’s forces. 

_I ask only for the strength to protect my people_ , Boromir had said, when he was at his most desperate. When the ring was just beyond arm’s reach. It had called to him, and in its siren song, promised that his people would live, would flourish under the ring’s power.

Had promised that Faramir would be safe, and would never again see battle. 

It had _known_ , of Boromir’s most secret and selfish desires, and turned them into his undoing.

Faced with this brutally accurate assessment, Boromir can only nod, even as Frodo clears his throat and nods in Merry and Pippin’s direction. “My kin,” Frodo says, a fond smile spreading slowly over his face, “tell me of how fervently you defended them against Saruman’s army, back in Amon Hen. And Aragorn, of how valiantly you fought at the Black Gate, to turn Sauron’s eye away from Sam and I. 

“So you see,” says Frodo softly, “if it was your wish to atone, you _have_. And by doing so, you have kept your honor; you have shown your quality, and I know it to be of the very highest. If it is guilt, if it is the burden of one moment’s misstep that you have carried all this time, please, carry it no more.” 

Stunned by the depth of Frodo’s kindness, Boromir stands stock-still. “Surely there must be something I could…” he tries searchingly.

“You have my respect, Boromir,” Frodo smiles, reassuring, “and my admiration. And if it is my forgiveness you seek, worry not, for there is nothing _to_ forgive.” Frodo casts his gaze upon the ground, and his next words, spoken with utmost sincerity, shake Boromir to the core. “I, too, have known the call of the Ring. Have done unspeakable things in its name.” When he finally meets Boromir’s eyes again, Frodo’s have still the same brightness and spark, but Boromir sees they have known the same fears. The same darkness. “You are not alone.”

With that, Boromir feels something unfurl in his chest, a lightness he had not known until now, a new joy that lifts his spirit and brightens his heart. “Thank you, Frodo,” he says. He could weep, at this understanding, this sense of forgiveness, despite Frodo saying there is nothing _to_ pardon. “ _Thank you_.”

Frodo smiles then, his impish grin contradicting his true age. “I think, at last, we understand one another now,” he says, and he sounds so much like Faramir in that moment that Boromir smiles back instinctually, before Merry and Pippin drag Frodo away to join in their revels.

“Well?” says Faramir, making his way toward Boromir. He curves an arm around Boromir’s shoulders, and upon finding no one else immediately present, dares to slide it lower, subtle, his fingers curling over the jut of Boromir’s hip. “Did you say all that you wished to?”

Boromir nods. “That, and more besides.” He turns to his brother then. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For explaining to Frodo, the burden we—that I—of Gondor, and our _city_ —”

Faramir waves it off, gently dismissive. “It was no trouble.” He squeezes Boromir’s hip, playful. “Now if you are quite done, I should like you to rejoin me in the festivities.” He nods toward the two steins, frothing with ale, that await them at a nearby table.

“I should like nothing more,” Boromir says, laughing, his heart and soul and every inch of his being finally _free_.

~

Faramir ushers Boromir to the table, where they take up their places among friends, before excusing himself to see to something in the kitchens. Boromir mourns the loss of Faramir’s warmth and subtle touches for all of a moment before Faramir reappears at his side, carrying a slice of treacle tart topped with a dollop of fresh custard he has snuck from the kitchens. 

“The cook nearly had my head for taking it,” Faramir laughs, as he sets the plate down before Boromir. “But it _is_ our favorite, after all.” It is a longstanding comfort food of theirs, and this occasion—of having summoned the courage to say the things Boromir for long months could not—certainly calls for it.

“ _Oh_ ,” Boromir sighs happily, eyeing the tart, eager. He looks up, meaning to say _Thank you_ and something akin to _I love you_ , to show his gratitude for Faramir having navigated the chaotic battleground the kitchens must be, just for him.

His next words die in his throat, however, for when Faramir beams at him with the broadest smile, a touch of custard smeared on his nose, Boromir is suddenly struck by the urge to clasp Faramir’s face in his hands. To lick the cream from his nose and see if Faramir’s lovely flush deepens further. To press his thumbs against the crow’s feet of Faramir’s eyes and trace them to where they fan out to his temples, that he can know the shape and curvature of Faramir’s happiness. To dip the pads of his fingers into the crease of Faramir’s jaw as he laughs, and know the texture and sound both of his brother’s laughter.

As it is, he wicks the cream away discreetly, licking the pad of his thumb for a taste of salt and custard and _Faramir_. Touches Faramir’s knee beneath the table, a brief, fleeting pressure. 

It will have to suffice. 

Faramir, for his part, smiles into his ale, disguising it as amusement at the Halflings’ performance from a distance away; their songs, though loud, are less bawdy now, and their dances less lively than when Boromir first knew them, as if the Halflings themselves have become more subdued. As if their joy has been tempered by loss, as everyone’s has. However, Merry and Pippin still put on quite the show, with Frodo and Sam clapping in time to their song. 

Later, Faramir lets the little finger of his right hand brush Boromir’s under the table. And when Boromir allows it to linger, Faramir curls it around Boromir’s, bold. The others at their table are too deep in their cups to notice, and the surrounding tables are focused on yet another drinking competition between Legolas and Gimli, of which Éomer is the sole arbiter.

“Captain Faramir!” one of Faramir’s Rangers exclaims, startling them from their reverie as he sets his stein down, heavy, on the table. “And Lord Boromir!” He searches for a space of his own among the others slumped in varying degrees of inebriation along the bench, and eventually shuffles in beside Rador, the recruit who had once borne hope to Faramir of Boromir’s survival. Judging by Rador’s feeble moan when the other Ranger nudges him aside, Rador might indeed have grown better at battle, but has yet to grow better at holding his liquor. 

“Gelion!” Boromir greets warmly. He remembers Gelion as one of the few he and Faramir had managed to get to safety at Osgiliath, before the Nazgûl’s attack. Remembers thinking that Gelion was long past his prime, growing long in the tooth, but appreciating that he had been one to nominate Faramir to his position as Captain. To follow him out of loyalty, and belief in Faramir’s leadership. He smiles and inclines his head in an approving nod at Gelion. 

Gelion returns the smile, before knocking his stein rather tipsily into Faramir’s, and Faramir returns the gesture with enthusiasm, their toast resulting in the spill of ale on the table and laughter all around. 

“It is good to see you in high spirits again!” Gelion says, beaming at Faramir. “I have not seen you smile like this since…” He pauses, as if to sift through his collection of ale-muddled memories. “Since last we retook Osgiliath.” 

Faramir only chuckles, neither confirming nor denying it, and the conversation is forgotten as soon as one of the maids arrives with another cask of ale for the taking.

“Is it true?” Boromir asks, when the others have cleared from the table, stumbling to the soldier’s quarters to sleep off the effects of the ale, or foraging at the larger tables for food. He picks at the last crumbs of their tart, though throughout the banquet Boromir has had a larger dessert than treacle tart in mind. 

Faramir hums happily, as he takes a swig of ale. “Is what true?”

“That you have not smiled like this, felt joy of this measure since we retook Osgiliath?”

Boromir remembers the day vividly: he had planted Gondor’s flag high upon the ruins, with the announcement, _This city, of Osgiliath, has been reclaimed—for Gondor!_ Had been the first Faramir greeted upon the army’s return, feeling the pure relief and joy in the strength of Faramir’s embrace. Reveled in the warmth of his smile, golden, like the ever-waning sun over the White City, longing to trace the crow’s feet at Faramir’s eyes when he laughed, the sound of it clear and bright and real.

“I know I did when I received the missive that you lived,” Faramir says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin. “But even so, I suppose it has been a while.”

“Then I have a new resolution,” Boromir declares. “That I shall give you all the joyful moments I can, that you may smile like this for all the days of your life.”

“ _All_ the days of my life?” Faramir smiles, beatific. “That is a tall order, indeed.” He covers Boromir’s hand with his beneath the table, no longer content with only the barest of touches, and his smile widens when Boromir curls fingers into his in response. “Perhaps we should start tonight. Slip away for a merrymaking of our own.”

“Mmhn.” Boromir beams, pleased that Faramir shares the same thoughts he has had in mind the entire night. He leans in and fixes Faramir with a look, one laden with such _purpose_ that Faramir visibly shivers. “I shall wait for you in your room, then,” Boromir murmurs, low and enticing. Grins a wolf’s grin, all sharpness and teeth, when Faramir swallows hard, catching his meaning of what is to come.

With that, Boromir rises to his feet, allowing himself one last look back at Faramir, lovely in the waning light of the feasting hall. Tips his brother a nod, despite how sorely tempted he is to take Faramir by the hand and lead him back to their rooms. He could do it, too—could take Faramir back to his room on the pretense that his brother has had too much to drink, and needs a good night’s sleep to offset the effects of his ale consumed—but Faramir does not look nearly intoxicated enough, and Boromir knows not if he can keep his hands, mouth, and lips to himself right now. 

And when Faramir nods back, in silent understanding that he will follow, but only when enough time has passed, he grins at Boromir, sly.

 _I know what you wish_ , Faramir seems to say, his brother always too clever by half, and Boromir realizes belatedly that his gaze has been riveted to the curve of Faramir’s lips. That he has been pondering how soft and plump they would be, moistened with drink as they are.

 _I know what you wish_ , Faramir nods.

 _And if you would wait but a little longer, you shall have me. In body, in heart, and in_ soul.

~

Faramir slips into the room moments later, while Boromir is readying some things around the bed. He has lit the candelabra on either side of the bed and the fire in the grate, as well as made Faramir’s bed anew; it would not do for their first celebrations in light of Boromir’s promise to be in the dark, amid rumpled sheets. As if their liaisons were something shameful and hurried.

“Have we not had enough drink this day?” Boromir says. He huffs a laugh as he watches Faramir set down two steins of ale, foaming at the brim. 

“Rest assured,” Faramir says dryly, as he bolts the door, “that these are likely to be mostly water. What with our city having made its way through most of Gondor’s brewed products by now.” He pauses, a curious smile playing about his lips in the warm glow of the firelight. “I brought these for _us_ ,” he adds, meaningful. “That we may share in a private toast of our own.”

The thought of their less-than-private toast on the day they had retaken Osgiliath comes to mind, and Boromir swallows, hard, around the knot of emotion of forming in his throat. Faramir had _remembered_ —the simple, reciprocated desire to raise a toast to each other, to tip their ale steins in each other’s mouths and drink a draught, long and full and deep. Being unable to, having been surrounded by comrades and friends the same.

“Faramir,” he says softly, touched. Hefts a stein in his hand before they move toward each other with equal intent, Faramir gently pressing his stein to Boromir’s lips, and Boromir urging his against Faramir’s.

They drink a draught each before setting their steins down. Chase the taste of ale from each other’s mouths, licking boldly in, tasting with tongue and lips and teeth. 

And when a trace of foam is caught above Faramir’s upper lip, Boromir leans in, grasping the collar of Faramir’s robes and touching his tongue to the offending blemish. Laves his tongue over the fullness of Faramir’s lip, even when the foam is gone, before pressing a series of light, breathy kisses to Faramir’s mouth.

“Boromir,” Faramir breathes, a bare whisper. “Boromir, _please_.”

The desperation and need in his voice drives Boromir into kissing his jaw, his neck, wet and open-mouthed nips that have Faramir arching into his touch.

He tugs the cloak from Faramir’s shoulders, flinging it toward a chair, careless, the midnight-blue cloth settling in a rumpled heap. And when Faramir’s mouth falls open, to reprimand Boromir for his lack of care with their ceremonial robes, Boromir cups Faramir’s face in his hands, taking his mouth in a kiss that is wet and messy and _hard_. Cups the base of Faramir’s neck to deepen their kiss until Faramir is gasping against him, clawing his back, in need of air. 

Just as suddenly, when Faramir has established a foothold in the floor, he grips Boromir by the shoulders, tearing away his crimson cloak and slamming him into the wall.

Boromir barely stifles the indignant squawk of _Who is the prude about our robes now?_ before Faramir seals their mouths together again, his arms closing tight about Boromir’s waist. Presses his tongue deep into Boromir’s mouth, the taste of him sweet and heady, a mixture of the wine and ale he has had.

When Faramir tries to reciprocate, makes to swallow Boromir’s tongue down, to suck it into his throat for the deepest, filthiest kiss, Boromir pulls away, sudden. Takes Faramir’s hand, reassuring, in the face of Faramir’s hurt noise of loss, and leads him toward the bed.

Faramir nods in silent understanding, and together, they make quick work of removing their breastplates. Strip each other of the rest of their finery, before wrenching away underclothes and breeches in a frantic push to touch, to kiss, to find warm skin even as their mouths meet again and again, heated, hard.

Throwing back the covers, Boromir slips into the bed and tugs Faramir in after him, off-balance. Laughs as Faramir cries out, startled, and lands in a rumpled heap on top of him.

“That was not funny—that was _childish_ ,” Faramir huffs, catching his breath. But Boromir’s delight is contagious, and in mere moments, he is laughing as well. 

Boromir takes advantage of Faramir’s happiness to nudge him into position and roll over top of him, bracing his elbows by Faramir’s shoulders. Faramir looks _exquisite_ in this moment, flushed with drink as he is, and Boromir cups Faramir’s rosy cheeks in his palms. Spends a moment watching him, wondering how his brother, so perfectly lovely and beautiful and brave, could want _him_.

It seems Faramir has had the same thought, for he strokes careful, reverent fingers over the line of Boromir’s waist. “I had not thought—” he tries, before his voice breaks. “I had not thought we could have this.” The apple of his throat shifts with a hard swallow. “That I could have _you_.”

Boromir kisses the hollow of Faramir’s throat, his jaw, reassuring. “We have this,” he declares, knowing Faramir can see he means not only this moment, but all that has passed between them, and all that will come to pass. “And now that we do, I shall _never let you go_.” His hands slide under Faramir’s arms, warm, fingers tightening over the jut over his shoulders. 

“Nor I,” says Faramir, equally as fierce. He is clasping hands around Boromir’s neck to draw him down for a kiss, when the sound of passing footsteps and voices makes them fall silent and still by instinct. 

Boromir can feel the panicked hummingbird flutter of Faramir’s heart against his chest, and presses airy kisses to his mouth, to soothe. Touches a wisp of a kiss to his brow. “Be calm, Faramir,” he says softly. “They can neither hear nor see us.” And at Faramir’s worried expression, that perhaps they should hurry through this and return to their respective chambers, Boromir adds, “We may take our time now. Our fight is over, and our people look to the king for guidance. There are neither Orcs waiting to break through the Great Gate, nor summons for secret war councils.” He nuzzles into the safe space of Faramir’s neck, feeling content and warm. “We have time at last, Faramir. For each other. For pleasure.”

Relaxing into Boromir’s arms only when the sound of voices passing too near their room has faded, Faramir still returns each kiss, each gentle stroke of his hair with one of his own. And when he is sure they are safe, that they will not be discovered, he loops his arms around Boromir’s neck again. Draws him down for a kiss that is as soft and full as it is slow.

“At last,” Faramir agrees, sighing, With gentle hands, he traces the curve of Boromir’s waist, fingers roving greedily over warm skin. Kneads hungry handfuls of Boromir’s buttocks, urging Boromir’s hips against his, swallowing his tongue down in the filthiest kiss. 

When Faramir finally frees him from his grasp, Boromir presses a trail of reverent, worshipful kisses along Faramir’s neck, and across the corded muscle of his shoulders, as if he is something treasured and precious. Sucks the rosy flesh of Faramir’s nipples, worrying them with his teeth, gentle, until they are the same cherry-red as Faramir’s lips. He is pressing tiny, nibbling kisses to the pert nubs when Faramir huffs, irritated, and he remembers then that he has been neglecting Faramir’s mouth. Rises to nip Faramir’s lips, bruising them with soft bites and licks and sucks, until he has returned the same pleasured flush to them, leaving them red and rosy and sweet. 

“You look good enough to eat,” Boromir muses, pressing his thumb against Faramir’s lower lip. He revels in how plump and full it feels. Loves the way Faramir gazes at him, his eyes hooded and his cheeks flushed with color as he parts his lips under Boromir’s thumb and takes the digit into his mouth, sucking, gentle. “Perhaps all we need is a little cream from the kitchens, and—”

Faramir swats him playfully. “Another time, Boromir.”

Boromir laughs, tangling fingers into Faramir’s hair, fond. “You are right; right now I wish to taste only _you_.” He kisses a path over Faramir’s cheekbone. The hollow of his jaw, and the long column of his throat. “I wish to taste you in every way. In every place. In every inch of you I can reach.” 

With that, he continues his path of kisses from where he left off, along the line of Faramir’s belly. Laves a tongue over the hard ridge of Faramir’s cock, licking a stripe from sac to crown before flicking his tongue at the head, teasing. 

Nestles his face into the delicious curve of Faramir’s thigh, before kissing the circle of his knee. 

The bend of his calves. 

The tender arch of his foot. 

Faramir shivers at the sensation of his toes being circled by Boromir’s tongue, and when he has had enough, pulls Boromir up against him, twining hands in his hair as he rolls them over in the bed. “ _Enough_ ,” he laughs. “You are not the only one who wishes for a taste of their lover.” 

He nuzzles with his nose the line of Boromir’s jaw and his neck. Touches light, breathy kisses to the scars on Boromir’s torso, where arrows had struck deep within him at Amon Hen; they had nearly taken Boromir from him, taken this privilege from them, and he traces now the oblique lines over the crease of Boromir’s brow, to reassure himself that they have this. That Boromir is safe in the cradle of his arms. 

His wish to taste every part of Boromir is cut short when Boromir pulls Faramir down against him. Hitches him in until Faramir’s feet are tucked beneath Boromir’s thighs, as he kisses Faramir, soft and sweet and slow. Slips fingers down into the cleft of Faramir’s ass and touches the tips of them to his hole, hooking up and _in_ , until Faramir is gasping against him, jerking forward with a cry. 

Boromir slides his tongue into Faramir’s mouth at the sound, sealing their lips together to keep kissing him, swallowing his cries as Faramir ruts against him. Relishes the sweet slide of Faramir’s cock against his, before swirling fingers in the precome that is pooling on his belly and slicking them both as he takes their cocks in his fist. Groans as Faramir’s hand closes around his, stroking, guiding his hand in the motions of pleasure long familiar.

“ _Wait_ ,” Faramir says suddenly, his voice strangled, as he makes a soft noise of displeasure. He stills Boromir’s hand with his. “I…I do not wish to spend in this way.” The sweetest flush suffuses his face at that, and he shifts himself until he is straddling Boromir’s lower belly. Until his ass can slide teasingly against Boromir’s cock, letting it nudge just the barest inch within, leaving no question of just what it is he wants. 

Boromir stills, surprised that Faramir wants to have him, as he has wanted Faramir. He is no stranger to the ways that men may join, having heard from the soldiers in his command of the pleasures to be gained, in secret. But as much as he and Faramir have experimented, he has never dared, never _thought_ —

“Tell me you want this,” Boromir says, an urgent whisper. He lets Faramir lie back against the bed, before daring to brush trembling fingers along the edge of Faramir’s entrance. They have not come this far before, content to revel in the simple pleasures of fingers and lips and tongues. “If you do not, I will cease, I swear it.”

Faramir drags him close, pressing a reassuring kiss to Boromir’s mouth. “I want this,” he says. “I have wanted _you_. For so _long_.” The last word catches in his throat, almost a sob. 

“As have I,” says Boromir, open, honest, wanting more than anything to dispel how wounded Faramir sounds. Wanting to sink within his brother and be one with him, to bring him the pleasure they have never known. “As have _I_ , Faramir.”

“In the drawer of my desk, then,” Faramir murmurs against Boromir’s lips. “The vial of oil I use to clean my weapons.” He sits himself up on his elbows, chuckling as Boromir fumbles through the contents of his desk, sorting through scattered ink quills and scrolls before seizing the inconspicuous bottle in the corner. “ _Hurry_.”

Kneeling back on the bed, between Faramir’s knees, Boromir uncorks the bottle to dip fingers to the oil. And at Faramir’s consenting nod, he presses fingers to the sweet pucker of Faramir’s flesh, worrying at how easily, how deeply they slip inside. In no time at all, his fingers disappear up to the first knuckle, the second.

“Faramir?” he asks, uncertain. “Are you all right? Am I hurting you?” He kisses Faramir’s brow, his mouth, to distract him from the discomfort below.

“I am _fine_ ,” says Faramir, despite his gritted teeth and shallow breaths. And when Boromir curls his fingers, stroking, Faramir arches against him, sudden, keening. “There,” he moans. “That, good, _yes_ —”

Boromir presses his advantage, having found the place inside Faramir that has him writhing and panting, and strokes deliberate fingers over it. Relishes the tiny gasps Faramir makes with each purposeful thrust. The way Faramir urges his hips against Boromir’s, greedy, eager, that have Boromir wanting to throw his brother down and take him immediately.

“Boromir,” Faramir begs, trembling, his hands grasping for purchase, and Boromir obliges, twining his free hand with Faramir’s and touching gentle, roving pecks to Faramir’s mouth and cheeks and brow. His nips turn into wet, filthy kisses, with Boromir pressing his tongue deep into Faramir’s mouth, like the way he wants to be inside him. Thrusting his tongue in before drawing it out, again and again, until Faramir is left gasping and twisting beneath him.

“Want you,” Faramir gasps, when they draw back for air. “Boromir, _please_.”

Boromir huffs a laugh, a shaky breath of air as he rests his forehead against Faramir’s. “All _right_.” He removes the stopper from the bottle once more, to slick his length with the oil. Circles Faramir’s puckered flesh with another generous helping of oil; he would not hurt his brother for the sake of a single night’s pleasure.

“Perhaps I should be on my hands and knees for this,” Faramir says, hesitant, as he starts shifting onto his belly, but Boromir stops him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“ _No_ —I would see your face, Faramir,” he insists. “I would see the pleasure our lovemaking brings you.”

At that, Faramir gives him the brightest, most grateful smile, one that makes Boromir’s heart stutter in his chest and his breath catch in his throat. He snatches a pillow from the head of the bed, positioning it beneath Faramir’s hips as he returns the smile with one of his own, broad and warm. “Here,” Boromir says, “this may ease the way for you, if only a little—”

Faramir laughs and pulls Boromir toward him. “Enough dallying,” he says. He strokes Boromir’s back, gentle, then his hip, soothing the faint tremor. Lets his fingers skim the broadness of Boromir’s chest and circle the muscle of his belly, before wrapping them around Boromir’s cock. “I want you,” Faramir whispers, reassuring. He cups the back of Boromir’s neck with his free hand, pressing small, breathy kisses to Boromir’s lips, his jaw. “I _want you_.” Widens his hips to let Boromir settle between them, before guiding Boromir inside him. 

“ _Faramir_ ,” Boromir sighs, reverent, as he sinks slowly into Faramir’s hot, wet heat. “Faramir, I…” For his brother to let Boromir have this much of him, to see this side of him, is a gift—one for which he is immensely grateful. But finding the words for this gratitude, this moment, is something that escapes Boromir entirely.

The bed must dip below their weight, or shift suddenly, as Faramir bites back a pained cry. “Slowly—please, _ah_ —” He bites his lip, drawing a tiny pearl of blood as his body tries to accommodate the girth of Boromir’s cock.

Boromir waits for Faramir to adjust to the length inside him. Waits until Faramir’s shallow breaths even out and his brother lets him know with tugs at his hip and touches to his back that he can press in further, deeper. They continue this way until he has bottomed out, his length as deep within Faramir as he can be. Faramir lies too silent and still beneath him, and Boromir smoothes a lock of hair back from Faramir’s brow, gentle.

“Are you all right?” he asks, worried. 

“More than all right,” Faramir says, his voice faint. “Perhaps even more so if you _move_.” He slides his hips against Boromir’s, small, delicious thrusts that have Boromir gasping against his mouth, and he draws back from Faramir before pushing back in—

“ _There_ ,” Faramir gasps, twisting beneath him, “right _there. Again_.”

And Boromir drives forward, to impact that spot within him again. Rolls his hips against Faramir until his brother arches off the bed, crying out with each thrust. 

“Boro—Boromir— _ah_ ,” Faramir pants. He grips Boromir’s wrist where it is braced by his head, his fingers trembling, his grip tightening with each push. Claws at the sheets, the pillow, and whimpers when Boromir hoists Faramir’s left leg over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts. 

His eyes are glassy and wide, the sea-blue of his eyes consumed by black, and even as Boromir strokes Faramir’s cock to distract and pleasure both, he takes the opportunity to watch how Faramir’s mouth falls slack at each wave of pleasure. The way his brow knits at a particularly pleasing thrust. And he will not admit it, not even under pain of death, but he finds the little hitch in Faramir’s moan absolutely _endearing_.

“ _Harder_ ,” Faramir demands, shaking Boromir from his daze as he digs a heel into Boromir’s back. 

Boromir obliges, lunging forward for a thrust that is as deep and brutal and sharp as Faramir wishes. Relishes Faramir’s startled howl and the hiccupping moan following it, before Faramir remembers to stifle his cries with a hand clapped over his mouth. But that will not do, because he wants to hear Faramir, despite how much of a risk it will be, wants to know the sound of his brother as he comes undone, so he lets Faramir’s legs twine around his back. Lets Faramir pull him down and bring their mouths together in a kiss that is sloppy and wet, as he urges Faramir’s hips wider apart. 

Then, finding traction on the bed with his knees, he hitches Faramir’s legs in the crook of his elbows and pulls him in, sudden, ramming his length deep within him, deeper than ever before. Revels in the sharp cry of surprise and pleasure, as Faramir writhes beneath him, panting and gasping, the flush on his face spreading down his neck and to his chest. 

“Please,” Faramir sobs. “ _Please_.”

It’s not enough, this pleasure, because Boromir wants him, _needs_ him, and his brother’s begging and goading only fuels his desire to own Faramir, to possess him in every way. So he hikes Faramir’s legs high over his shoulders. Shoves in hard, again and again, relishing Faramir’s choked-off gasps and stifled cries, his fingers pressing deep into Faramir’s thighs, bruising, grasping, as he takes Faramir’s mouth, deep and dark and desperate. To sate a hunger primal, insatiable.

Faramir allows it, allows Boromir’s desperation for long moments before he kicks his legs free of Boromir’s shoulders. Knocks Boromir’s elbow out from the inside and flips them over, tackling him to the bed as he had done when they wrestled as children. 

“ _I_ have the upper hand now,” he hisses, twining his hands into Boromir’s and riding him, hard, hips bucking as Boromir pushes into him from below.

And when Boromir snakes a hand to his waist, greedy, grasping, looking to grip Faramir’s hip to give him better leverage, Faramir catches his wrist in the act. Brings Boromir’s hand to his lips to kiss his wrist, his palm, before slipping the first two fingers of Boromir’s hand into his mouth. Rolls them against his tongue, licking and sucking, his mouth a perfect mime of what his body does below. Then he pins the offending hand to the bed, and the other, his own hands manacles for Boromir’s wrists, as he rides Boromir harder, lifting and plunging himself on Boromir’s cock again and again, as if he cannot get enough of him.

In this, he reminds Boromir of the sea: his brother has always been the more level-headed of them, calm and tranquil, yet other times indomitably fierce when roused, whether it be to battle, to defend what is precious, or to passion.

Boromir wrenches a hand free from the prison of Faramir’s fist. Rakes fingers through Faramir’s hair before tugging him down by those curls, harsh, to kiss him, to drive his tongue deep into Faramir’s throat; Faramir is not the only one who can be roused to such fierceness in his passion.

A hot, wet press of flesh at Boromir’s belly reminds him of Faramir’s cock, bouncing against him with each lift of Faramir’s hips, full and flush and leaking. Boromir presses it flat against the plane of his own belly. Lets each of Faramir’s heaving motions create a natural friction for it, between Boromir’s hand and the hard plane of Boromir’s abdomen, until Faramir is gasping from the dual pleasures of having his length trapped between Boromir’s hand and belly and Boromir driving in deep within him.

“ _Boromir_ ,” Faramir gasps, his pace slowing with each subsequent arch of his hips, until with a strangled cry, he spills across Boromir’s belly. Streaks Boromir’s chest with a thick line of come as his knees buckle beneath him and he collapses onto Boromir, twitching, panting, his lungs struggling to fill with air.

Boromir twists hands into Faramir’s hair, his fists closing around Faramir’s curls as he drags him up for a filthy kiss. Circles Faramir’s tongue with his, drinking in the taste of him, hot and moist and sweet, as he swallows each of Faramir’s whimpering cries; each cry is louder than the last, each a desperate whine as Boromir pushes up into him, again and again, freeing his hands to heave Faramir forcibly up and down on his cock and fuck him through his orgasm until—with one brutally vicious thrust, _two_ —Boromir spends within him, forceful, _wet_.

With a sigh, Faramir slumps over him, spent but sated. He looks slightly dazed, his cheeks flushed a wine-dark red, and Boromir slips fingers into Faramir’s hair to undo the tangles characteristic of the thoroughly debauched. It is a good look on him; Boromir cannot help but curl a palm around the base of his neck and bring their mouths together for another kiss. 

Faramir kisses back, sweet and soft, his eyes closed as if he revels in the moment. Smiles against Boromir’s mouth and hums, content—at least, until Boromir rolls them onto their sides and strips a pillow of its casing to wipe them down. The motion causes him to slip out of Faramir, his flesh softening but still warm.

“I wish I could keep your issue inside me,” Faramir mumbles sleepily. His eyes flutter open for a halfhearted pout. “That a part of you would remain with me, wherever I go.”

Boromir chuckles at the sentiment, finding it oddly sweet, even as he laments the loss of the view of Faramir’s golden lashes fanning his cheeks. But he finds he cannot complain when Faramir nuzzles into him, his nose warm and his mouth hot as he twines arms around Boromir’s shoulders. Tucks toes in behind Boromir’s calves.

He gazes at Faramir, his brother’s eyes hooded with sleep. Swirls a thumb over Faramir’s temple, gentle, before tracing the path his hair flows along on the pillow. A swell of warmth and love and affection rises unbidden in Boromir’s chest, and he suddenly finds it imperative to let Faramir know how he feels. Before chance or misfortune can rob him of this opportunity again. 

“Faramir, I…” Boromir tries. “I—”

He has long been unable to say the words since they discovered their affections lay beyond those of the fraternal; not even after Osgiliath, the night they had last shared affections before Boromir’s journey to Rivendell, or at the tiny fishing village, where they were known to none. But now, _now_ they have peace, or something like it, so there is no reason why telling his brother he loves him should be so immensely _difficult_.

Faramir blinks, before laying a finger over Boromir’s lips, hushing him. “I know, Boromir,” he says. He cards a hand gently through Boromir’s hair, tucking a wisp of it behind his ear. “I know.”

Seeing that Faramir will not hold it against him, will not force the words he cannot say, even when they are ensconced in their own rooms, safe from prying eyes, Boromir shakes his head. Kisses Faramir’s finger where it rests upon his lips. 

“No,” Boromir whispers. “I will not be cowed by fear this day.” He curls his arms behind Faramir’s shoulders, fingers closing gently over the jut of Faramir’s collarbone. “I love you, Faramir, in all the ways there are. As brother, lover, and friend.”

“Oh,” says Faramir, when at last he finds his voice. “I, too…” he tries, and falters. 

It was a sentiment easily shared between them, before either of them realized their love had transcended that of brothers, and it seems they will both need time to reacquaint themselves with it.

Boromir laughs, a rumble of genuine pleasure, and touches his lips to Faramir’s nose. “You need not return the sentiment this instant. We have a lifetime for that.”

“A lifetime,” Faramir muses softly, before gripping Boromir’s shoulders, heartened. “Never again,” he says fervently. “Never again shall we be parted.” 

From the fevered look in his eyes, Boromir knows he is thinking of the long months they have been apart at a time, in training and on patrols, their last longest parting having been the length of Boromir’s journey to Rivendell and back. He would not be separated from his brother again, either.

“Oh?” Boromir smiles, nuzzling into the warmth of Faramir’s neck before acquiescing. “Is that a threat, little brother?”

“Nay, an oath,” Faramir says firmly. 

“In that case, let me not be named oathbreaker, then.” He feels a dull pang of guilt at the oath he broke for the Fellowship, but as Faramir says, the pain of that grows duller every day from all he has done to atone for it. Besides, his scars from each arrow wound are reminder enough of the betrayal; he will not soon forget the lessons he has learned from that ordeal.

Faramir seems to sense his thoughts from his silence, and lays a kiss to each of those scars, three soft presses of lips to flesh of Boromir’s made new. “I know what it is you think of,” he says gently. “But _this_ oath—this oath you will keep. Until the end of your days, and mine.”

“Yes,” breathes Boromir, his eyes glistening with tears unshed, of joy and thankfulness both. He folds Faramir into his arms and seals this new oath, this purpose Faramir has given him, with a kiss both sweet and sincere. “Until the end of our days.”

~

He wakes to find Faramir sitting up in bed, beautiful in the early light of dawn, the sun bathing him in lovely orange gold. Faramir watches him through half-lidded eyes, his fingers threaded through Boromir’s hair. Stroking gently, as if he is a treasure. A miracle.

Boromir reaches out and catches his wrist, pressing soft, sleepy kisses to each of Faramir’s knuckles. Faramir feels like sunlight and warmth and everything _good_ , and Boromir twines their hands together, kisses inching higher, to wrist, to forearm, to elbow. “Still here,” he murmurs. “Still love you.” 

“Fool,” Faramir laughs. “I know this.” Boromir’s reassurance seems to put him at ease, however, and he slips beneath the sheets again, winding his arms around Boromir’s waist. Kisses Boromir’s shoulder, gentle. His mouth. 

Boromir leans into Faramir’s embrace, weaving his fingers between Faramir’s and pressing their linked hands over his heart; it is a reassurance for them both that they have loved, that they live, and that there is, very surely, laughter to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:**  
>  \- _“…Mirkwood and Erebor—both places having fared better than Gondor, despite the armies Sauron sent to the north…”_ – Refers to the Battle of Dale, which took place days before the Battle of the Black Gate.  
>  \- Boromir and Faramir’s coronation speeches are borrowed/paraphrased from the book passages of _The Return of the King_.
> 
>  **Art:**  
>  \- [“Bowing to the King” ](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/3%20bow%20to%20king.png~original) – Art Commissioned from Hvit-Ravn  
> \- [“Remember Today” ](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/4%20remember%20today.png~original) – Art Commissioned from Bunnyxian  
> \- [“The Morning After” ](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/5%20morning%20after.png~original) – Art Commissioned from Bunnyxian
> 
> \- I’m including these commissions on good faith, so please don’t spread them around Tumblr, or Instagram, or any other such social media. I’d really like to share the work of these amazingly talented artists, but if I find them appearing on Tumblr or the likes, I simply won’t post any more of them. Thanks for understanding!
> 
>  **OST:**  
>  \- Aragorn’s Coronation: [ The Return of the King – Various ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2jJnyyta07k)  
> \- Aragorn's Coronation Song, By Itself: [Elessar's Oath](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4hA-u_eMMQ)  
> \- Revelry, at the Merethrond: [Fear No Darkness - Adrian von Ziegler ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWpe2ppRRGg)


	11. Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amid their duties as Stewards, Boromir and Faramir still manage to find time—for pleasurable pursuits both old and new.

~

The next day brings a series of endless meetings, regarding the resettlement of lands in northern Ithilien, which until recently had been ravaged by Mordor’s forces, and the rehabilitation of the fields surrounding Minas Tirith into farmland. It is only after they have a hasty dinner of roasted lamb, grapes, and wine and return to their office—to draw up shorter trade routes with Rohan before retiring for the night—that Boromir finally notices something.

“What about establishing a route through here?” Faramir asks. He slides his finger along the map they have spread on the desk, pausing just above the Drúadan Forest. Dips a quill into his inkwell to mark the potential route. “Granted, we would need guards to protect the caravans. But this route, at least, would circumvent the need to pass through the Dead Marshes and the Emyn Muil.”

Boromir strokes his jaw, thoughtful. “Even if we were able to obtain permission from the men of the forest to traverse their lands, and the caravans were able to make it through, the mountain passes might still prove impenetrable for—” He catches himself staring, and turns away, chuckling. 

“What is it that amuses you so?” asks Faramir, quill poised mid-air. He looks up to where Boromir is standing just behind him.

“Ah, nothing, just—it is the way you are sitting on the chair.” He eyes the way Faramir is poised gingerly on his seat, the back half of his rump hovering just over the cushion. 

“I see,” Faramir says dryly. “If I recall, the fault is entirely _yours_.” He smiles then, devious. “No matter, I will repay you in kind tonight,” he says casually, as if remarking upon the weather. 

“Oh.” Boromir’s throat goes dry at the thought. “Yes. If that is what you— _yes_.”

He finds it immensely difficult to focus on drawing up the trade routes for the rest of the night. 

When, for the third time, Faramir asks his opinion of selling the _potential_ of wheat crops to Rohan and Boromir simply nods in response, Faramir huffs a laugh. “Perhaps we should retire for the night,” he says, covering Boromir’s hand with his. Lets his fingers curl into the spaces between, his thumb stroking the underside of Boromir’s just so, in shameless invitation.

“Perhaps we should,” Boromir replies. And beneath the thoughts of Drúadan Forest, of trade with Rohan and even Mirkwood, all he can think of is that tonight his brother will _have_ him, that he will finally be Faramir’s in the way Faramir has been _his_ , and they will be each other’s, wholly, utterly and completely.

~

Faramir insists that they wash first, so they make their way to the newly furnished private baths, readying soap and towels before slipping into the lovely warmth of the water.

“Mmhn,” Faramir hums, as he sinks in neck-deep. His hair floats along the surface of the water, like liquid gold, and Boromir takes a moment to tangle fingers in it, appreciative. “It has been too long since I had a proper bath.”

Boromir snorts. “That was only two days ago, yet you speak as though you have not bathed in a _month_.” He runs a washcloth over soap, working up a lather, and smiles as Faramir stalks toward him, his movements fanning out tiny ripples like wind on the water.

“Spoilsport,” says Faramir, and before Boromir can respond, he scoops a wave of water in Boromir’s direction, playful. Laughs when the wave soaks Boromir fully, leaving him looking like a drenched cat. 

Boromir rakes his hair back from his eyes, before mashing Faramir’s head underwater, chuckling when Faramir flails about, his arms thrashing in the water. His laughter is short-lived, however; Faramir retaliates by pressing nibbling kisses to his belly, like an eager fish. Tickles the sides of his waist with fingertips light and fond, before giving Boromir’s cock a teasing tug.

“ _Faramir_!” Boromir yelps, letting Faramir surface at the last action. He might be a spoilsport, but his brother is a _cheat_. Already he can feel heat suffusing his cheeks and manhood, in embarrassment and arousal both.

Faramir rises from the water, his laugh a wet gurgle as he brushes the hair from his eyes. “I had planned for us to behave until we returned to your chambers,” he says, his grin entirely too predatory. “But if you cannot wait…” He wades closer to Boromir, arms closing about his waist. Pitches his voice low, sultry, his lips hot against Boromir’s. “Perhaps I should take you into my mouth, beneath the water’s surface. Give you pleasure of a different sort. Or,” Faramir adds, arching a brow as he switches tack, “perhaps _you_ should take _me_?” He nudges his half-hard length into Boromir’s thigh, suggestive.

“I,” Boromir tries, swallowing, his throat dry. “I think perhaps we should wait. Not that we may not try that another time,” he says hastily, when Faramir’s brow furrows and his lower lip juts out, in something resembling a pout. “I only wish to wash properly this time, that you may have all of me, as you wish to.”

With a solemn nod, Faramir’s arms close tighter about Boromir’s waist, snug. “You are right. We shall save such leisurely pursuits for next time.” There is a promise in Faramir’s deeply possessive grip that sends a thrill of anticipation down Boromir’s spine. “For now, however…” He takes up the washcloth in Boromir’s hand, and works up a new lather with the soap, smiling as the scent of warm milk and honey pervades the air. 

The genuine sweetness of his smile secretly pleases Boromir; he had gone out of his way to search for a unique soap they might use in the baths from the shops in the second circle of the city. Had scoured through ones scented lilac, lavender, and even _plum_ before settling on this one. 

Faramir nudges him into position, his chest pressing warm against Boromir’s back. Lays a kiss on skin after each corresponding point of contact from the front has been washed, like a stamp of completion: a kiss to the nape of Boromir’s neck as he laves the space beneath his jaw; a touch of tongue to each shoulder as he cleans Boromir’s arms; a bruising, sucking kiss to the small of Boromir’s back after he has swiped lazy circles over Boromir’s chest and the plane of his belly. 

And as Faramir trails fingers, teasing, along Boromir’s hardening flesh, he nips the corner of Boromir’s buttock, leaving a bite mark, cherry-bright and livid.

Boromir laughs and swats Faramir lightly, wrenching the washcloth from his hand; with the exception of Faramir’s teeth sinking into skin, shocking him from his daze, Faramir’s bathing of him has been immensely sensual, and Boromir aims to return the favor, immediately. 

He hitches Faramir against him, folding one arm over his waist, the other free to move the washcloth along Faramir’s throat. The jut of his collarbone and the smooth muscle of his chest. The solid plane of Faramir’s abdomen. And with each pass of the cloth over muscle, Boromir spends a moment tracing with the fingers of his other hand, the trail of the washcloth. Lets his fingertips skim the corded muscle of Faramir’s arms, his chest.

“I remember these,” Boromir frowns, the pads of his fingers sliding gentle against the scarred skin of Faramir’s chest. “These wounds you bear—they are from our last attempt at Osgiliath, are they not?” There are yet other scars, of more battles past; here, a jagged one, along the junction of Faramir’s arm and shoulder. And there, the score of a blade over his belly, that has left a pale, arcing crescent in its wake.

Boromir has seen them in the times they lay curled together in their rooms, and again when they made love, but always in the rosy hue of candlelight or the soft glow of sunrise. Never like this, where the stark light of the bath’s lanterns throws Faramir’s scars into sharp relief. When Boromir can _see_ the crudely healed skin he is touching, run fingers along each ragged remnant of their battles.

Any _one_ of these wounds could have taken Faramir from him, and Boromir is only dimly aware of the keening sound issuing from his throat before he winds arms snug around Faramir’s waist. Buries his face into the hollow of Faramir’s neck, desperate, as if he can protect his brother from the ills of the world if only he clings hard enough, presses in close enough. The memory of that near-hopeless battle at Osgiliath is still too near, and Boromir berates himself for taking Faramir’s presence for granted. For not giving each of Faramir’s scars the care they were due when last they made love, in his haste. 

He would have kissed each scar, as if his lips could cauterize the wounds that inflicted them. Worshipped each ridge of raised skin as if he could heal each one of the hurts Faramir had suffered.

“ _Boromir_ ,” Faramir says, his voice on the commanding side of gentle. He tangles their fingers together, lifting one of Boromir’s hands from around his waist to his lips. “You see, then,” he says. “We are the same.” Faramir turns in Boromir’s arms, tracing the roughened skin on Boromir’s own torso, arrow wounds and blade scores the same. “And now you know how I felt.”

“Yes,” Boromir whispers. Too late he remembers the broken, wounded sound Faramir had made when they lifted Boromir’s bandages away, days after the army’s return from Barad-dûr. The way he had brushed fingers against Boromir’s scars, gentle, before folding Boromir into his arms, crushingly tight, as if he would never let him go again. 

He lets Faramir trace the scar from the deepest arrow wound on his chest, pensive, for all of a moment longer before catching Faramir’s wrist. 

“ _Enough_ ,” says Boromir, twisting the edges of his washcloth until he has something resembling a rope. Loops it behind Faramir’s neck and tugs him forward, until Faramir is forced to step closer, so Boromir can kiss him, slow and warm and languid. Can touch his tongue to Faramir’s and taste the lingering flavor of cherry wine. “I intend to enjoy myself in these new baths,” Boromir says, twitching a brow as he reaches down and gives Faramir’s cock a sharp, playful tug. “And I would have you join me.”

They have spent time enough on sorrow and regrets; Boromir would have them use what time has been given them now to _live_ their lives, whether it be for passion, or pleasure, or—

“Oh,” Faramir blinks, before the slowest, sharpest grin spreads from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Oh, I _see_.” With small, insistent pushes to Boromir’s shoulders, Faramir bullies him into a corner of the bath. Slips a leg in between Boromir’s as he boxes Boromir in, his hands braced on either side of Boromir’s head. “You would have us focus on the present,” he grins, nipping Boromir’s lower lip, tugging it with teeth. “And on the future.” Faramir draws back for all of a moment, allowing Boromir a shaky breath before taking his mouth, hot and wet and rough, his tongue pressing firmly into Boromir’s. “Yes, I intend to do exactly _that_.”

Boromir is caught somewhere between a whimper and a groan, before Faramir tugs him off balance. Pulls Boromir toward him as he takes a seat on one of the steps of the bath.

“Come _here_ ,” Faramir commands. The tone of his voice sends a delicious shiver down Boromir’s spine, and he obeys, straddling Faramir in the warmth of the soapy water. It is not often that his brother takes the lead like this, and to cede control to him is a luxury. A privilege.

Faramir winds the washcloth behind Boromir’s neck, dragging him down further into his lap for a kiss that mirrors Boromir’s earlier, but is harder, hungrier, a scrape of teeth and lips and tongue that has Boromir panting into Faramir’s mouth, breathless. 

“I would know the taste of you,” Faramir murmurs. “Your mouth.” His tongue darts out to taste Boromir’s. “Your length.” He wraps fingers around Boromir’s hardened flesh, teasing, stroking, before twisting thumb and forefinger at the head, making Boromir jolt in his arms and moan against his mouth. At the sound of Boromir’s moan, Faramir smiles, sharp, and he tugs Boromir closer. Winds an arm around his waist, while the other snakes down the curve of Boromir’s spine, his fingers dipping into the cleft of Boromir’s ass. 

“Faramir, wait—” Boromir manages, writhing in Faramir’s grip. But Faramir’s hold is a vise, and already it is too late, because Faramir has touched the tips of his fingers to Boromir’s entrance, gentle. 

“ _All_ of you,” Faramir finishes, fierce, hooking fingers into Boromir and stroking at sensitive pink flesh. He watches Boromir writhe and keen in his grasp, enjoying Boromir’s tiny, breathless gasps. “This is but a taste of the pleasure I will give you,” he says, his breath hot against Boromir’s neck, his teeth grazing the lobe of Boromir’s ear.

Boromir shivers at the promise implicit in those words, but dips his head to touch it to Faramir’s. “That is all fine and well,” he says, trying to fight back a smile, “but perhaps we should consider a change of locale. It would not do for our cries to be echoing across this circle of the city, after all.” In truth, he is not averse to experimenting with their surroundings, and the baths are as good a place as any. But for his first time, he would have Faramir take him on their bed, where Boromir might take comfort in a room familiar and warm. Where they might burrow into the soft sheets after, curled together, as they had when they were small. 

“I am sure there are ways around that,” Faramir frowns, eyeing the washcloth thoughtfully, but at Boromir’s anxious look, his expression softens. “Oh, Boromir,” he says, winding arms around his waist, gentle, and laying his head on Boromir’s shoulder. “Forgive me. I should have thought of—I should have known. To our rooms then, as you wish?”

Boromir nods, pressing a peck of a kiss to Faramir’s temple, grateful, and together, they exit the water to towel themselves dry. Clothe themselves in the white robes readied for those who have finished bathing, before Faramir leads Boromir back to his own room, their hands knit together, snug, their footsteps quiet.

Faramir lights the fire in the grate of Boromir’s room this time, then the candles, turning to Boromir when he has finished and pulling him close by the lapels of his robe. “Well? Is everything to your liking?” Faramir teases, nosing at Boromir’s cheeks. “Or shall I have the maids fetch us a new set of sheets? A band of minstrels to serenade you as we—”

“Stop, _stop_ ,” laughs Boromir, walking Faramir backward toward the bed. “I have all that I need right here.”

“Oh, you are sure of that, are you?” Faramir grins, sitting as his knees make contact with the bed. He tugs at the sash of Boromir’s robe, humming appreciatively at the reveal of Boromir’s chest. “What about a band of maidens instead?” He noses at the line of Boromir’s ribs, his belly; dares an experimental lick, taking the measure of him through touch and scent and taste. “Nubile, beautiful?”

“There is only one whom I want,” Boromir growls. He straddles Faramir’s hips and presses him to the bed. Slips hands beneath the collar of his robes to revel in the clean, damp warmth of his skin. “And he is no _maiden_.”

His words seem to stoke a fire within Faramir, as Faramir lunges toward him, wrenching free the sash holding Boromir’s robe closed and dragging Boromir down for kisses heated, desperate. Twists fingers into Boromir’s hair, tight, as he throws an arm around Boromir’s waist to hitch him close, and heaves them over in the bed. He draws aside the cloth of Boromir’s robe with sharp, jerky pulls until all of Boromir is exposed, open. Kisses a hungry trail along the four freckles lining his belly—three in line above his navel and one to the left—mapping the constellation they form, before laying his head against Boromir’s chest, listening, breathing, silent.

“Faramir?” Boromir asks, dazed, his limbs sprawled out along the bed. He cards fingers through Faramir’s hair, gentle. Waits.

Faramir lifts his head and presses a kiss to Boromir’s jaw. “Boromir, I—” he tries, as if there is a torrent of words, of feeling behind what he wishes to say, but Boromir never hears what is behind this rush of emotion, as Faramir swallows hard and sinks into Boromir’s arms. Kisses Boromir again and again, each press of lips soft and slow and sweet, like Boromir is precious, like something Faramir cannot live without.

He traces a slow, lazy circle with his thumb over Boromir’s temple as his lips move lower, roving over the line of Boromir’s jaw. Peppers a trail of kisses along Boromir’s throat before touching lips to Boromir’s chest. His stomach. Lets his tongue swirl the inside of Boromir’s navel. 

Despite Faramir’s promise to return the favor of taking Boromir apart, Boromir can tell his brother intends to take his time, with the way Faramir worships each inch of him with a kiss. As if each press of lips is a method of tattooing his name into Boromir’s skin, a way of saying _Mine, mine, mine_ , while making every inch of Boromir feel wanted and loved.

Boromir is just about lost in the sensation of Faramir’s mouth around his fingers, when Faramir laves his tongue over the surface of Boromir’s cock, a velvet scrape of pleasure that has Boromir arcing into his touch. 

“ _More_ ,” Boromir says, dismayed when Faramir moves away. He nudges Faramir with his knee, hopeful.

Faramir only chuckles, and kisses the head of Boromir’s cock. “Another time,” he says, apologetic. “I shall bring you to pleasure this way, but it is not this night.” 

Already Boromir misses the lovely hollowing of Faramir’s cheeks when he swallows Boromir down, and the sight of his lips closed around Boromir’s cock. But tonight, _tonight_ , Faramir has promised they have something different to try, and he swallows his complaints, letting Faramir drown out the bitter taste of them with more kisses, lingering and warm, to thighs and calves and toes. Lets Faramir urge him onto his front, with gentle, guiding pushes, until he is on his hands and knees against the bed, enjoying the nibbling kisses Faramir presses into skin, from the soles of his feet to the backs of his thighs. 

With a swift tugging motion, Faramir relieves Boromir of his robe and drops it on the floor. Nudges Boromir’s legs apart, his path of reverent kisses continuing up into the line of Boromir’s buttocks. 

“ _Faramir_ ,” Boromir says, uncertain. He knows his brother will have care with him where it is needed, but if Faramir is indeed planning to—

“Do you trust me?” Faramir asks softly. His palms span the length of Boromir’s buttocks, his fingers digging just the right amount of possessive into flesh.

“I—yes,” Boromir breathes. Faramir has never hurt him, has never taken of Boromir’s what he would not give. “Completely.”

“Good.” Faramir presses another kiss, gentle, to Boromir’s hip, before spreading him open, leaving him vulnerable, exposed. But Boromir has given his word that he trusts Faramir in this, so he lets Faramir have this. Lets Faramir in when he touches the tip of his tongue to Boromir’s entrance, tracing the sweet pucker of flesh before pressing up and _in_. 

“Fara—Faramir, _wait_ ,” Boromir gasps, trembling, his fingers tightening in the sheets and leaving gouges in the soft fabric. He had not thought there could be bliss like this. Suddenly, the thought of Faramir trying this first with another makes something curl leaden and cold in the pit of his belly. “Who taught you this?” he demands, when he finds his voice again. “Who showed you this pleasure?”

Faramir remains unperturbed, even chuckles as he cups Boromir’s sac, careful. Licks a stripe from balls to hole again, the sensation of it impossibly pleasurable. “Did you think the archives of Minas Tirith housed only stories of battles past?” he asks, amused. “Or tomes only on weaponry and the like?” He strokes a palm along the curve of Boromir’s back, soothing. “You are the first, Boromir.” Kisses the crease of his thigh, tender. “You are the _only_.”

And though shame burns in Boromir’s cheeks, for he has as good as accused Faramir of being unfaithful, Faramir leaves him no time to dwell on this mistake. He laps the sensitive flesh around Boromir’s hole. Continues licking into Boromir, hungry, sharp, the pleasure his tongue bringing Boromir as he presses in, probing, _indescribable_. Then with one flick of his tongue over the hole, he delves in with a finger, pressing it up and in even as he lets his tongue trace each ridge of puckered flesh. 

Boromir groans, deep, his hole clenching instantly around Faramir’s finger. “Faramir,” he pants, “ _please_.” It occurs to him that he knows not what he is pleading for; just knows that he wants Faramir, wants more of him, in him, on him and around him. 

With a nod of acquiescence that Boromir feels against the back of his thigh, Faramir obliges. He gives Boromir’s twitching hole one last kiss, before licking a stripe over the small of Boromir’s back. Covers the dimples and crease of Boromir’s ass with tantalizingly slow, delicious kisses. Along Boromir’s back, Faramir sucks a bruise, berry-red and bright into each knob of Boromir’s spine. Bites nipping kisses into Boromir’s shoulders as he claws his way back up, like a predator stalking its prey. And when he reaches Boromir’s neck, he sweeps Boromir’s hair aside, gentle, to touch lips to the nape of his neck. Drapes himself along the length of Boromir’s body, teasing him by pressing his hardened flesh against the cleft of Boromir’s buttocks, but never quite sliding _in_.

“Nngh,” Boromir manages, a muffled sound against the pillow, as he nudges his backside into Faramir. He means to say _Are we to do this or not?_ but Faramir has robbed him of all eloquence, even the ability to form words, with his deeply intimate exploration.

Faramir laughs. “Rascal,” he huffs, fond. “Who is the impatient one _now_?” 

When Boromir purses his lips and buries his face into the pillow in answer, Faramir kisses his shoulder in apology. Touches his lips to the space between Boromir’s shoulder blades for a gentle circle of kisses. “We will do this,” he reassures, “but not as we are now.”

He guides Boromir onto his back, shifting until Boromir lies sprawled beneath him, as if a delectable dessert to consume. Cups Boromir’s cheek with a roughened palm. 

“I would see your face,” Faramir says softly, “as you did mine.” He traces an idle path with his thumb from the corner of Boromir’s eye to his jaw. “I would know the look in your eyes as I make you come undone. The sounds of your rapture as I ravish you, and break your limits, one by one.” His length brushes against Boromir’s belly, angry and red and full, as he leans in to purr his poison, dangerous and tempting. “ _I_ will make you abandon your inhibitions—until there is no line you will not let me cross, no thing you would not let me do—to give you the utmost in pleasure.”

With that, he takes Boromir’s mouth, wild and wet and rough, his tongue plundering and his teeth nipping until Boromir is left gasping for air, dizzy for want of him, his mind reeling from Faramir’s cleverly spun words.

“Faramir, please,” Boromir breathes, his voice hoarse with need. “ _Please_.”

“So beautiful,” Faramir murmurs, his lips grazing the hollow of Boromir’s throat, “when you beg me like this.” He touches a finger to Boromir’s entrance, allowing the tip of it to slip just inside, eliciting a soft moan from Boromir. “When you cry out beneath me. When you cry out _for_ me.”

He continues on his quest to take Boromir apart, slowly, carefully, using teeth and lips and tongue, kissing the breath from him even as he reaches for an unguent from Boromir’s night table. Uncaps it and starts preparing Boromir with fingers to ease the way. 

“That unguent is supposed to be for injuries _only_ ,” says Boromir stubbornly, even as he slides his rump down along the bed and lets Faramir press in between his legs. The mixture is cool and moist, at complete odds with the heat of Faramir’s clever fingers. 

Faramir huffs a laugh. “If we do not use this, you will have an injury of another sort,” he says. “One that I am in no hurry to explain to the healers.”

Boromir mirrors his grin, before the stretch from Faramir’s fingers becomes uncomfortable, then nearly unbearable; it seems the further Faramir’s fingers slide, the more it _burns_. “Faramir, please—I _cannot_ —” Boromir gasps, and Faramir stills until Boromir has had more time to adjust.

“You _can_ , Boromir,” Faramir says, kissing him again. He lets his fingers close gently around Boromir’s length, a distraction of pleasure from the burn below, then crooks the fingers he has inside, and _oh_ —Boromir arches off the bed, startled; that must be what Boromir finds when Faramir cries out sudden, like that.

“ _Fara_ —” Boromir manages, before Faramir seals his mouth against Boromir’s, swallowing his cries. Kisses Boromir again and again, each touch of lips soft and sweet and intimate as he twines fingers into Boromir’s hair. Slides his tongue into Boromir’s mouth, to know the taste of Boromir in the same moment his fingers slip away and he nudges his length against Boromir’s entrance. 

Faramir enters him slowly, nearly too gentle, their motions the very definition of lovemaking rather than the rutting of beasts, and Boromir feels a measure of shame as he thinks back to the night before; in spite of the kisses he had bestowed upon Faramir, he had taken Faramir with the barest of preparation, and he resolves to take more care with Faramir in the future.

Faramir’s mouth is hot against his, and the rasp of his beard against Boromir’s rough, but still his brother shows restraint, moving his hips only in the smallest, slowest rolling motions. “Boromir?” he whispers. “Are you all right?”

The time Faramir has given him to adjust, first to his fingers and now to his length is a boon, and already Boromir can feel the initial burn giving way to a welcome ache, one that has him nodding as he pulls Faramir to him. Deeper within him. Has him gripping Faramir’s shoulders, tight. 

“Harder,” Boromir breathes. “ _Harder_.”

Only then does Faramir quicken his pace, the rolling of his hips turning into sharp, jabbing thrusts, and when Boromir bites back a moan, his hands scrabbling against the bed for purchase, the sheets, Faramir hisses, “To _me_. Hold onto _me_.”

Boromir obeys, looping his arms around Faramir’s neck instead. Tangles fingers in his brother’s hair, tight, as Faramir moves within him, rocking inside him, urgent.

“Boromir,” Faramir breathes, desperate. “My Boromir.” As if saying his name again and again, a mantra, a prayer, will make his wish to keep Boromir forever come true. He swallows Boromir’s wounded cries with more kisses, capturing the tip of Boromir’s tongue with his lips, and sucking it down, hungry, eager. Starts rocking in harder, faster, and impossibly _deep_ before it’s somehow not enough, in skin and warmth and heat, and he wrenches Boromir’s legs over his shoulders. Grips his ankles in a vise-like hold and presses forward, bending Boromir nearly in half, until Boromir is left clutching the bedframe, teeth clenched against the pillow in an effort to muffle his cries.

To Boromir’s horror, Faramir tears the pillow from his grasp and shoves it beneath his rump, leaving Boromir to sink teeth into the back of his hand to stifle his howls. And when it is in position, Faramir presses in deep, deeper, further than fingers have gone before, grinning sharply when Boromir groans. When his breathy cries turn into short, desperate gasps. At that, Faramir presses forward _again_ , until the muscles in Boromir’s calves and thighs _burn_ , until his knees are pressed against his chest, and at that—when Boromir is left vulnerable and open, speared so deeply and completely— _that_ is when Faramir’s tongue snakes into his mouth, tasting him, testing. When Faramir kneads Boromir’s lower lip with teeth, sharp and greedy, drawing a perfect pearl of blood, the tang of metal on their lips as Faramir seals his mouth against Boromir’s for kiss that is hot and hard and wet. Drinks in the taste of Boromir, hungry, to slake an unquenchable thirst.

_Blood calls to blood_ , thinks Boromir, the thought errant and wild, as the taste of sin and blood and _Faramir_ melds thick and dark upon his tongue. 

“Fara—Faramir— _ah_ ,” Boromir tries, his voice a strangled sob. He rakes nails along Faramir’s hips at each brutally perfect thrust, clawing hard enough to draw blood. Works a hand down between the join of their bodies to wrap fingers around his cock, to stroke it in time with the rhythm of Faramir’s thrusts.

“ _No_ ,” Faramir snaps, catching Boromir’s wrist. “You will spend from the feeling of me within you, or not at _all_.”

Boromir cannot draw breath enough to argue, whimpering as Faramir pins his wrists to the bed in punishment, thrusting into him viciously hard. Leaves him dizzy, lightheaded, as Boromir fights for breath, spots of light dotting his vision from the overwhelming pleasure Faramir gives him, as he strikes that spot within him again and again.

“Is this everything you had hoped for?” Faramir whispers, as he drives Boromir into the sheets, hard and deep and _wanting_. Lets Boromir’s legs down to rest against the small of his back again. “Desired?” 

Boromir struggles to catch his breath, stifling a cry as Faramir pushes deep within him again. “I should hope there is love, too, in this.” He hopes he sounds properly affronted, but the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

Faramir laughs against Boromir’s mouth, his breath warm, and curls arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. “Always.”

“So it is a given, is it?” Boromir grins. “Then yes; _you_ are everything I have hoped for.” He tucks a lock of Faramir’s sweat-slick hair back behind his ear. “Everything I have desired.”

Faramir blinks, dazed, at Boromir’s answer, before giving him a smile that is all kinds of wicked. “Good,” he says, rolling his hips into Boromir and relishing his sharp cry at the unexpected push. “Because I intend to give you love and pleasure _both_.” 

Boromir’s words seem to spark some strange sense of possessiveness in Faramir, as he claims Boromir’s mouth with renewed fervor, sealing their lips together in a kiss that is rough and hot and _hard_ , stealing the breath from his lungs. Seem to act a reassurance, a key to unlock the words Faramir has been holding back, because after one push, _two_ , Faramir buries his face into Boromir’s neck, his arms curling tighter beneath Boromir’s shoulders.

“I _love you_ ,” Faramir whispers, fierce, as if he has built up the courage to say this again. At Boromir’s noise of surprise, he lifts his head from Boromir’s neck. Cradles Boromir’s face in his palms, as his thumbs brush the corners of Boromir’s eyes, where crow’s feet from years of laughter and happiness and sorrow shared between them have formed. “I love you so dearly, that a thousand years, a thousand _lifetimes_ with you would not be time enough to share the depth of my feelings for you.”

Boromir blinks, stunned, Faramir’s words having struck a chord deep within his chest. “Ever the poet,” he says finally, smiling, because Faramir, without even trying, has eclipsed Boromir’s sentiment from the day before. Leaves his own words lacking, inadequate to convey the depth of his own all-consuming feelings for Faramir. Fortunately, he more than makes up for it through his actions, in sweet, lingering kisses to Faramir’s jaw. Wandering fingers that stroke Faramir’s thighs, before gripping them, heartened. Toes that run slow, adoring, along the length of Faramir’s calf, to show his brother his feelings are reciprocated in _full_.

He demonstrates his devotion in all the ways he knows how, through gentle kisses and sweet nothings, murmured like secrets into Faramir’s mouth, his neck.

And even after Faramir has spilled inside him, hot and deep and wet, when he has brought Boromir over the precipice time and time again, Faramir winds fingers into Boromir’s hair, tight. Holds his brother in his arms as if he cannot bear to let him go. 

“I would gather the stars for you, if you wished,” Faramir whispers. “I would hang the moon for you, if only I could.”

Boromir only shakes his head and gathers Faramir into his arms, gentle. Noses at his neck and the softness of his hair, as he skims fingertips over Faramir’s back. Lets Faramir settle into the warmth of his arms, before sharing his most heartfelt words.

“I have all the stars and moon I need,” Boromir says, touching lips to Faramir’s softly, “right _here_.”

~

The mild chill of their early spring is what wakes Boromir before dawn has broken. By now, the candles have guttered to waxen stumps, allowing the full radiance of the moon to light the room, and it shines now upon Faramir’s face—not the harsh, bone-pale light that Boromir is accustomed to, but a soft glow, accentuating the arch of Faramir’s brow. The delectable dip of his neck. The curve of his shoulders.

Faramir looks lovely in the moonlight, and Boromir cannot help but card fingers through his hair, gentle. Cannot help but reflect on the fact that they have consummated their relationship now in all the ways there are. It makes him wonder if Faramir will tire of him, now that he has tasted of the forbidden fruit, though Boromir would not blame him for finding another; he is hardly the epitome of a lover, and even less the epitome of an elder brother. A proper brother would not have let them come this far. Would have had the restraint to never start this at all. 

The fear strikes him then, that with the rising of the sun, Faramir will finally _see_ him. Will really _look_ at him, and reflect upon the nature of what they have. 

Will find it wanting, and think that Boromir is undeserving of his affections. 

It takes Boromir a moment more before he realizes that the insecurities and worries that plague him are mostly unfounded, and he breathes deep to prevent his further spiral into darkness. Thinks to slip away to Faramir’s room, to clear his mind, or at least let Faramir have the space he needs, to determine if this is what he truly wants. 

Faramir must have been dozing lightly, for his arms close around Boromir’s waist, drawing him back from the edge of the bed. As if he senses Boromir’s intent from the way he shifts in the sheets. 

“You think entirely too much,” Faramir mumbles, his breath warm against the nape of Boromir’s neck. He goads Boromir into facing him, with gentle tugs and nudges, until their hips and knees slot together, seamless, perfect. “My feelings will not change with the coming of the dawn.”

Boromir swallows the lump of guilt knotting his throat. “You say that now,” he says, forcing a carefree laugh, “but you may think differently in the morning. The light of day has a way of illuminating things.”

“I have loved you through the moonlit nights,” Faramir murmurs, drawing Boromir closer. “And I will love you with each rising of the sun. Through the changing of the seasons, and the passing of the years.” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind Boromir’s ear and cups the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss that is unhurried and sweet. “You need not worry, brother.”

_Brother_. Faramir holds no illusions about who they are or what they have between them. With that single word, he has assured Boromir that this is indeed what he wants, and always will.

His words quiet the warring voices of self-doubt and guilt in Boromir’s mind, and he finds himself curling deeper into Faramir’s embrace. Allows Faramir to pamper him with proof of his affection, from the arms wrapped around his shoulders to the press of lips against his hair. 

And finally, he lets himself _believe_ —revels in the knowledge that he is so very _loved_ , and will be, for the rest of his days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! Thank you for staying with this fic so far! :D


	12. What The Future Brings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir and Faramir, after the war.

~

The restoration of Minas Tirith continues, stone by stone, with the rebuilding of homes and halls, inns and stables. The reestablishment of the mercantile district, with its garment shops and bakeries, produce stands and restaurants.

So too does life return to the Pelennor Fields, in the green that slowly colors the grass again. The waterways that farmers cultivate to irrigate their crops, and the livestock that pepper the fields, grazing in their designated areas, doe-eyed and gentle.

The city and its surrounding plains flourish, its people rallying under Aragorn’s leadership. And while Aragorn has taken on the title of the king of Gondor, in both name—as King Elessar—and function, both Boromir and Faramir support him from behind the scenes as his Stewards, directing occasional patrols of the borders and drawing up treaties and trade agreements with neighboring realms, helping make the decisions that will prove best for Minas Tirith.

By now, Boromir’s days are filled with numerous meetings, less the war councils his father had held and more the diplomatic negotiations of trade and transport—between Gondor, Rohan, Dale, and its Elven neighbor, Eryn Lasgalen, once known as Mirkwood—that he and Faramir now host. These meetings are but one of the many tasks that have fallen to the two of them, as chief counselors in the Council of Gondor.

Boromir still takes care to keep his and Faramir’s relationship discreet, in the presence of all; as accepting of his Stewards’ work together as Aragorn is, Boromir doubts the courtesy would extend to his and Faramir’s relationship. And whether Aragorn knows of their bond or not, it would not do for them to cause trouble for their new king or draw suspicion to themselves. 

In the months following Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding, however, the general populace had been high on a post-wedding bliss; attention had turned quickly to his Stewards, gossip abounding of whether Boromir or Faramir would marry first, that the city might celebrate another union. The scrutiny has been uncomfortable of late, but worse still are those who whisper suspiciously about the absence of marriage in both their lives, at their age. Those who suspect the truer nature of the relationship between him and Faramir.

These bolder whispers say that what he and Faramir have is unnatural. That it is wrong. 

Boromir has long since learned to ignore the whispers, for they have remained simply that—the mumblings of a bored populace—and it is better that the citizens have time to idly gossip than their kingdom fall into peril, but _still_.

It is this exasperation that brings him to the recently rebuilt ramparts tonight, a bid to escape both rumor and responsibility for a while and gaze upon the night sky. The stars offer neither counsel nor solace but they are beautiful to behold, and Boromir takes a moment to wonder if the legends are true: if indeed the kings of old watch over them from the skies. Lets himself ponder, in the presence of the cold and lovely beauty of the stars, impartial ornaments of the skies, how it can be _wrong_ , what he and Faramir have. That they love quietly, secretly, causing harm to no one.

“I thought I might find you here,” says a familiar voice, from behind him on the rampart. There is a grin in the voice, an easy warmth that makes Boromir turn, immediate; he would know the cadence of that voice anywhere. Could pick it out from a crowd a hundred deep. 

“ _Faramir_ ,” Boromir whispers, nearly a sob. How he has missed him, suffered for want of him! Faramir has been absent for more than a week, sent to patrol Osgiliath and drive off remnant Orcs in the outlying lands. Up here, secluded away from the others of the hall, there is no need for pretense, and Boromir flies into Faramir’s open arms. 

“It has been too long,” murmurs Boromir, burying his face in Faramir’s hair, as Faramir does his. Revels in the honeyed scent clinging faint to the curls at Faramir’s neck. 

“Agreed,” Faramir says. He sweeps the edges of the cloak he borrowed from Boromir around him, enveloping them both in a cocoon of warmth and comfort. It has become something of a ritual, that of the two of them, whoever leaves for a mission may wear it. The cloak smells of them both now, of earth and leaves and fire, and a hint of pipe-weed smoke, on the rare occasion Boromir indulges—a habit he had picked up from Merry and Pippin. “Too long indeed.”

But for Faramir’s warmth, the night air is crisp and cool and just the wrong side of biting, and Boromir circles his arms tighter about Faramir’s waist within their cloak; how good it is to have Faramir in his arms again! “I shall have to insist on a new law, then,” he says.

“Oh?” Faramir teases, huffing a soft laugh into Boromir’s mouth. “That any assignment or patrol beyond the city that might last a week or more, we shall do together?”

“Yes,” Boromir whispers. He breathes in the scent of Faramir, like he cannot get enough of him, drinks his fill of him with lips and tongue while his hands wander and touch, his nose nudging into the hollows of Faramir’s throat and ears, because it _has_ been too long. “ _Yes_.”

“Done,” says Faramir immediately. “Let us speak with Aragorn about it on the morrow.”

“How did you know I—” Boromir starts, before shaking his head; that Faramir knows what is in his heart should not be a surprise at all.

Faramir only laughs, loops the cowl of the cloak over both their heads—hardly a shield against prying eyes—and kisses him on the mouth, warm and soft and full. He tastes of apples, summer-bright and sweet, the first of the crop from farms newly established on the Pelennor Fields. And when he presses his tongue against Boromir’s, fills his mouth, his senses, with the heady scent of fruit and honey, like wine, Boromir kisses back, hungrier, harder, until he is breathless, drowning, consumed completely by thoughts of Faramir, on his lips, in his mouth, fingers woven through his hair. Until he is helpless to do anything but cling to Faramir, his hands clawed into Faramir’s tunic, twisting into his cloak.

“And so?” Faramir says, when they finally break apart for air. “What counsel do you seek from the stars tonight?” When Boromir does not answer, he tips Boromir’s jaw up, gentle, between thumb and forefinger. Kisses him, soft and reassuring. “Boromir? What is it that troubles you so? Ever have you sought refuge here when—”

“It is nothing,” says Boromir, too sharply, turning away. “Nothing troubles me. Please. Inquire no further, Faramir.”

Faramir nearly flinches away, but he lets his hand cup Boromir’s cheek instead, hesitant. “Boromir,” he says, his voice filled with hurt that Boromir has no right to inflict, no reason. 

“I am sorry,” Boromir says immediately, drawing Faramir close again. “I only—I have often wondered what will become of us. If we are to live a life of deception and subterfuge for the rest of our days, ever vigilant, waiting only for such stolen moments as these. Waiting for the _night_.” He presses his forehead to Faramir’s, for courage. For strength. “I have heard what some in the lower circles of the city say of us: that what we have is unnatural. That it is wrong. But how _can_ it be, if we harm no one with this?”

Faramir clasps his hands around Boromir, at the small of his back, and hitches him in close, his arms a haven of comfort and safety. “Our friend, Samwise,” Faramir says slowly, “once told me, that in the quest to destroy the ring, in the darkest hour before the dawn, he looked to the ash-filled, fiery skies of Mordor. Saw naught but darkness, save a single star. That he shared that single brightness with Frodo, saying, ‘Look! There is light, and beauty up there that no shadow can touch.’

“I know that there are those who stand against us. That there may indeed be peril ahead. But there is love also, and beauty to be found in what we have. And if we hold fast to it, together, we shall be a light that no shadow can touch.”

“Mmh,” Boromir smiles, bringing their lips together, gentle. Faramir has not said as much, but the ardent way in which he gazes at Boromir shows that he thinks Boromir his single point of brightness in an otherwise light-starved night. “Inspiring you to such poetry as this—Samwise is wise, indeed.”

Faramir groans at the ill-timed jest. “ _Boromir_.”

Boromir chuckles then, relieved and encouraged by his brother’s comfort and their friend’s wisdom both. “How is it,” he says, “that I only need hear such declaration from you to feel heartened again?”

“Heartened?” Faramir laughs. “That, Boromir, is because I am your heart.” He lays his hand over Boromir’s chest, and Boromir can feel the hammering of his heart against Faramir’s palm; he mirrors the gesture, laying his hand over Faramir’s chest, delighting in the beat of Faramir’s heart in time with his. “And you are mine.”

Boromir smiles, broad, leaning in for a kiss after nuzzling into the hair of his brother, his lover, his heart; it seems, that like so many other things—their likeness, battle-prowess, and immense devotion to each other—they have each others’ talent for ill-timed jests, after all.

“Perhaps, while you are in such a good mood,” Faramir says between kisses, “I should remind you of the lands the King has granted us, just south of Osgiliath.”

“Oh, the lands of Emyn Arnen?” Boromir laughs. He looks out to the hills beyond the city, past where the Anduin cuts a ribbon of silver across the land. “The ancestral home of the Stewards, yes—I had nearly forgotten. What of them?”

“Forgotten in your _brooding_ ,” snorts Faramir, even as he takes Boromir’s hands into his own, warm. Soothes Boromir’s knuckles, reddened with the cold, with kisses feather-light and sweet. “Our lives will not be comprised of stolen moments such as these forever,” he whispers, fierce. “One day, our paths shall lead out to those hills.” He touches his lips to Boromir’s brow, reassuring. “When we have rid the lands of Sauron’s remaining forces, the Orcs that still prowl these lands, and seen Gondor into an age of prosperity, we may finally find peace of our own out there.” 

Boromir nods; they could live in the hills in privacy, away from all this, returning to Minas Tirith only as Aragorn needed them. “We _will_ ,” he says, with conviction. “I know it.” He winds his arms about Faramir’s waist, and leans in to capture his mouth once more. Boromir dares to hope for that day now; dares to imagine the life they may seek out, in lands they can call their own. “And we will find it _together_.”

 

[End]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OST:**   
>  \- Night, At the Castle Walls: [Kaisou – Yoshikawa Youichirou](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP14Sf0_jnM)  
> \- Looking To the Future: [ Legacy – Brian Tyler ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjAfQToA054)
> 
> All right, so this story is what I disappeared for most of 2014 to write—a personal project to see Boromir live and return to his city and his brother again. ^3^ ~ ♥
> 
> I hope you’ve all enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it! I do have a few more ideas for this ‘verse, which hopefully I can get to soon. Until then, thank you for joining me on this adventure!

**Author's Note:**

> This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
> 
> I'm also [eyeus](http://eyeus.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, if you want to chat about headcanons or send prompts my way!


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